Tales of the Munster festivals

LI B R.ARY

OF THE
UNIVER.SITY
OT ILLI NOIS

823
G87t

V. 1

i

TALES

MUNSTER FESTIVALS.

Jutt FubUshed,
Second Edition — Price 9s. 6(L

HOLLAND TIDE, or, Irish Populär Tales.

" We distniss these Tales with an expression of cordial and un-
reserved praise; they contain scenes wliich are liardly surpassed
as to truth and power, by any thing which has yet proceeded
from the pen of Sir Walter Scott." — Monthly Review, &c.

TALES

MUNSTER FESTIVALS

CONTAIKING,

CARD DRAWING; THE HALF SIR;

AND

SUIL DHUV, THE COINER,

BY THE AUTHOR OP

" HOLLAND-TIDE, OR IRISH POPULÄR TALES."

IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. L

LONDON:

SAÜNDERS AND OTLEY, CONDUIT STREET.
1827.

Printed by J. F. Dove, St. John's Square.

\

PREFACE.

From a cause which is so universally known
that it needs scarcely be indicated here, a
degree of importance appears to be at present
attached to works of this nature, with which,
before our own time, the graver efForts of
literature alone were invested. It may be
useful, therefore, that the reader should be
made aware, in very few words, of the design
and object of these voluraes, before we venture
to submit them to his judgment.

They are an attempt to illustrate the man-
VOL. I. b

11 PREFACE.

ners and other peculiarities of a particular
district of Irelaiid <which, though presenting
many higlily interesting features to the eye
of the novelist, has hitherto been altogether
neglected), by a series of Tales, each of which
shall fix its main action on one of the populär
Festivals of the year, or days which are set
apart for the observance of certain traditional
rites and gala ceremonies. This is merely
done to enable the writer to avail himself of
the convenience of a plan— not that the ac-
count of the Festival itself is intended to form,
by any means, a leading feature in the story.

The Law na Breedha or Candlemas day — the
Law na Stephaun, or St. Stephen*s day — and
the Eha na Shaun or St. John's Eve (all of
which are still kept in yearly observance
throughout those districts of the country
which have fallen under the writer*s Obser-
vation)—are the Festivals comprised in the
present series. The few Irish sentences or
expressions which occur in the course of the

PREFACE. IM

work, are taken ex ore, and speit rather accord-
ing to tlieir English pronunciation, than in
compliance with the classical orthography of
the language.

These particulars are perhaps all of which
the reader need be apprised : but the author
cannot conclude bis brief preface without
returning bis warm acknowledgments to tbose
gentlemen who reviewed the slight Perform-
ance called '* Holland-Tide," in the populär
periodicals. If they should find in the present
efFort anything to justify tbeir generous antiv
cipations, the writer will have another, and a
worthier pleasure added to the mere selfish
enjoyment of gratified ambition. It is perhaps
tbe foible of an author to grow out of conceit
with a task which he has once executed,
however intensely it may have filled bis mind
before it was transferred to paper ; to become
enamoured of a new design, and to imagine
himself capable of better things. Without
presuming to say that he was altogether free

VI PREFACE.

from so natural a vanity as he drew near the
conclusion of these volumes ; the author is,
iievertheless, far from desiring to put it for-
ward as a ground for farther indulgence.

INTRODUCTION

The tide was almost out when I arrived, in
the Summer which has just gone by, on the
eastern shore of the bay of Bealcraigh or
Scagh, which runs into the wildest portion of
the County of Cläre, within several miles of
the mouth of the Shannon. I had proposed
taking in my route up the river, the celebrated
isle of Scattery, which now looked dim and
distant with its round tower and ruined
churches, near the mouth of the bay. It was
with no little chagrin, therefore, I discovered
that not a single boat on the shore would

VI INTRODUCTION.

float for several hours, after the lapse of
which, as I was informed by a smart little
child, with her gown turned up in a womanly
fashion over her head — " the boatmen would
lay me anywhere down the river Pd like, an
"welcome, without a hai*p'ny expense ;" but
it would be too late to stop at St. Sinon's
isle.

There was little, moreover, in the scenery
which immediately surrounded me, that could
furnish sufficient employment to keep oflf the
demon of ennui, during the slow and creeping
progress of the glassy tide. A black looking
country, covered, as far as my eye could reach,
all round the spacious bay, with numerous
turf-yards and farm-houses of the humblest
description, possessing wildness without gran-
deur, and tameness without beauty — destitute
even of the least particle of foliage, however
amusing it might appear to the trav eller from
its novelty, would afFord a very poor subject
for the pencil of the draughtsman ; and.

INTRODUCTION. vü

modestly calling to mind how very indiffe-
rently landscapes of real beauty had fared
under ray pencil, I prudently caiculated that
the result of a similar Operation in the present
instance could not be very interesting.

While I loitered, therefore, along the shore,
crushing the cast crab-shells and withered sea-
weed under my feet, watching a group of
country people and turf boatmen who were
loading one of their heavy open craft (which
lay at some distance bedded on her side in the
slob) witli potatoes for some inland market,
and turning an impatient glance on the silent
water, as it stole by half inches over the dun
and weary extent of level mud that spread
between the Strand and channel, and gradually
began to fill the ruts and foot-prints about
the vessePs keel, my attention was arrested by
the sound of a female voice at a few paces
behind.

I turned round, and was presently accosted
by a modest-looking woman, neatly dressed in

Vlll INTEODUCTION.

the scarlet, fur-trimmed cloak, clean white cap
and riband, which are populär among the cot-
tage fashionables. Her business was to in-
form me, that her husband, Patcy Magrath
(the Word was spoken with a slight confusion
and downcast timidity of manner, which inti-
mated that he had not long enjoyed that
blissful title), the owner of the boat, and of a
neat white cottage which lay cotivenienty seeing
a Strange gentleman Walking on the Strand,
had bid her say, that he'd take it as a favour,
if I'd just Step in and take a chair, until the
boat would be afloat, when the boy would be
sure to let me know.

I accepted the invitation, with suitable ac-
knowledgments, and, following my tidy con-
ductress, was presently shewn into a neat,
boarded room, furnished with a few wooden
chairs, an old gothic-panneled press, a few
highly-coloured religious prints, and a piain
oak table, near which was seated a per-
sonage of so singular an appearance, that

INTRODUCTION. IX

I shall venture to describe him at füll
length.

He was an old man — unfortunately, a sour
old man — lean and long-limbed, and afFecting,
as much as he possibly might, without ren-
dering himself absolutely ridiculous, a cos-
tume which appeared to me to bear a close
resemblance to some of the most antique
of our national habilinients. His pantaloons,
which in younger days might have fitted
tight on the linibs over which they now lay
lapped in many an ungainly fold, might have
passed, but for its singleness of hue, for an
ancient truis — his hat, which now lay on the
table, broad-brimmed and conical in the
crown, seemed but another fashion of the
birrede of the Ollamh — his hair was thrown
back on all sides from his brow and face, so as
to fall in the form of a glib on the neck behind
— and his cloak (rather perhaps from his
manner of wearing it thaii.from its actual
b 2

X* 1NTROD13CTION.

form) might not inaptly be compared to the
Milesian fiUead.

Near the window, which looked on the bay,
sat a respectable-looking, middle-aged woman,
of a gentle, pleasing countenance, which still
retained all the elements of beauty, although
the weeds of widowhood, which the possessor
wore, and the pale cheek and sobered glance
which harmonized with thein so svveetly, yet
so mournfully, shewed that the days had gone
by when she valued the endowment. She rose
from her seat as I entered, and received me
with a low courtesy and smile of welcome, after
which she resumed her place and her knitting
in silence. The stränge gentleman merely
measured my person with a sullen and super-
cilious eye, and continued to pore over a tat-
tered volume which lay before him.

The ungracious tone in which he replied to
an apology made him by my conductress, for
the delay to which he was unavoidably sub-

INTRODUCTION. XI

jected, deterred me from attempting to draw
him into any conversation, and wishing to de-
tail! the young woman,who appeared to be the
only social individual of the three, I said,
looking at a medal which was suspended by a
blue riband over the wooden chimney-piece,
and on which I could discern the wörd
*' Trafalgar," with the date of poor Nelson's
victory : —

** Your husband has served, I perceivel"
And I pointed with my finger to the medal.

" Oh, no, Sir/' she replied, laughing;
^' passen what service he seen aboord the
turf-boat up an down from Limerick, I be-
lieve he hasn't a hai'porth to teil more than
meself."

^'Whydoyoulaugh?''

''Because, Sir/' replied the eider matron,
who sat near the window, '' she thought what
an old husband she'd have in Patcy, if he had
served in that battle."

" It is true/' said I, a little confused, " and

Xii INTKODUCTION.

I ought to have recollected it — and I should
be very sorry to see so pretty a girl matched
with an old man — '' (here the gentleman at the
table looked at me askance, inside bis spec-
tacles) — " even thougb be had fought by the
side of our great hero."

This Speech restored me to favour, and in a
little time the younger woman informed me
in an under tone, that the medal belonged to
her aunt Dorgan's husband, who had died
about a year before, and whose widow (the
very person whq had just divined the cause of
her merriment) had resided with her husband
and herseif since their marriage — an event
which, she intimated with a becoming blush
and stammer, had taken place about three
months since.

" That medal, I dare say," said I, '* was an
honour of which he was very proud."

*' It was an honour, Sir, that nearly cost
him dear enough, at one time," replied my in-
formant.

IMTRODUCTION. XlU

"How wasthat?"

*' I will teil you that, Sir," she said, in a
half whisper, '^ when my aunt, poor woman,
laves the room, as she's goen at this minute,
and she mightn't like to be reminded of it,
poor creatur."

I congratulated myself that I had not blun-
dered upon these awkward reminiscences in
Society where fashion and education have im-
happily fostered a morbid refinement of feel-
ing, and where, in allprobability,amore distant
allusion than I had here made would have l«ft
me to answer for a hysterical passion, or a faint-
ing fit. When the handsome widow, in a little
timeafter, had dropped her quiet courtesy, and
left the room, I reminded her young niece of
the promise I had received. She gave me, in
as few words as possible, the incidents of the
Irish seaman's adventure—which were affect-
ing in themselves, and rendered doubly so by
the natural and feeling manner in which she
delivered them.

XIV INTRODUCTION.

*' It would make an interesting Tale," said
I, when she had concluded.

The elderly gentleman here again raised his
head, and peering on me through his half-
closed eye-lashes, with a sneering smile, as if
he would say, '* You know a great deal about
the matter, I dare swear — " he once more re-
suraed his studies.

** Talking of talCvS," I continued. wishing
to analyse the old gentleman, as soon as we
were left alone together, which happened
shortly after — " it is surprising that while
so many able pens are employed in deline-
ating the manners and scenery of all other
parts of Ireland — this unique and interest-
ing people, and the magnificent wonders of
their coast should have altogether escaped
attention."

This I said with a certain tone of authority
and loudness, as if to compel a degree of
deference from my morose companion. He
replied, however, in a grufF tone, and without

INTRODUCTION. XV

raising his eyes from the book — ^* Vm very
glad they have, Vm sure — Pd be very sorry it
v^ras otherwise."

** I believe you are rather singular in that
opinion/' said I, *^ and it is fortunate for our
novelists that you are so. Tales of this natura
are, I believe, very populär at present."

" I have something eise to do besides read-
ing them/' he replied.

" You are a fortunate man/' said I, " if you
can employ all your time more profitably and
agreeably. For my part, I am of opinion that
they might be made the vehicle of not only
very agreeable, but very useful information.
Besides, they throw a train of pleasing associa-
tions around the people whose manners they
describe, vvhich never fades nor is forgotten,
and which is found to serve them among their
neighbour-nations in a hundred ways. For
instance, if a Venetian, or a Mid-Lothianite,.
and a Munsterman were asking an alms, and I
(a Citizen of the world, having no country

XVI INTRODUCTION,

Claims with any of the three), had but a penny
to give in cbarity, I should at once bestow it
upon the Venetian or the Scot, while the poor
Munsterman might go empty-handed, because
his birth-place had not at once brought to my
recollection the delightful illusions of an
Otway or a Jedediah Cleishbotham. I will
go yet farther, and say, that the conscientious
novelist, supposing that he drew his portrai-
tures scrupulously from Nature, might efFect
a still higher purpose. He might furnish the
statesman and the legislator with an index to
the dispositions and habits of the people he
was to govern, and who were too distant for
personal inquiry or Observation."

The old gentleman appeared to like my
pertinacity. He wiped his spectacles, put
them into their case, and closed his book
while I was speaking, as if he were prepar-
ing to take my hypothesis to pieces at his
leisure.

" You are like the music-master in Moliere/^

INTRODUCTION. XVll

Said he, again looking at me with his smile of
contemptaous toleration, ^' who attributes all
the wars, famines, pestilences, I believe, crimes,
murders, and all other miseries and enormities,
by which mankind are disgraced and punished,
to a want of the general difFusion of musical
knowledge. You seem to have the sarae faith
in the influence of novels that he had in that
of catgut and rosin. You would, I suppose,
have a typhus fever, or a scarcity of potatoes,
remedied by a smart tale, while you would
knock a general insurrection on the head, with
a romance in three volumes !"

*' Not so fast," Said I, ^^mine was no such
Utopian fancy. I gave the class of writers in
question, their moderate proportion of value —
but you appear to be one of those who must
have them do all or nothing — who — to use one
of our Irish proverbs — if a man were to carry
you on his back from this to O'Brien's bridge,
would fling him into the stream for not carrying
you over."

XVIU INTRODUCTION.

"I am one of those," said the old gentle-
man, who appeared to be best pleased with
rough usage, " who think that a ruined people
stand in need of a more potent restorative than
an old wife's story. The author of the English
Lexicon said of a conceited dramatist, who
attributed something of a similar influence to
one of bis productions — ' that those who
affected to think the Church of England in
danger, might also afFect to think that a play
could save it ;' and so may I now say that those
who afFect to think that the condition of Ire-
land can ever be made prosperous, may also
afFect to think that such an alteration may be
bronght about by a novel. But if such a
ridiculous idea can be seiiously enteitained
for an instant, this, at least, is certain — We
are in no wise indebted to those writers, how-
ever brilliant their acquisitions or endowments
may be, who, professing to present faithful
illustrations of the minds and hearts of our
countrymen, greedily rake up the forgotten

INTRODUCTION. XIX

superstitions of our peasantry, and exhibit
the result of their ungracious researches,
the unhappy blemishes of our island, the
weaknesses of our poor uninstructed pea-
santry, over which decency and good feeling
would have thrown a veil, to the eyes of a
World that, unfortunately for us, is but too
eager to seize every occasion for mockery and
upbraiding against our forlorn and neglected
country,'^

I heard this with a disagreeable conscious-
ness, for which, perhaps, the reader may be
enabled to account when he has perused the
whole of these volumes. It was the first hit the
old gentleman made, which told upon my con-
science. I rallied speedily, however. '^You
would have them write then," said I, ^' on the
plan of some American novelists, who take care
to construct their narrative, so as that they
may be enabled to Jonathanize all the virtues,
while all the villains of the tale shall be either
Indians or Englishmen, For my part, I be-

XX INTRODUCTION.

lieve, and I am proud to say it, the great
majority of my countrymen are far superior to
that narrow-minded, national conceit which
cannot relish a strong truth (even admitting
it to be over-seasoned for tlie sake of effect),
and which would prefer idle flattery to instruc-
tion/'

" Nay/' Said the old gentleraan, *' but deal
fairly with us. Give our lights, ifyouwill not
overlook our shadows. I would ask you with
FalstafF, Ms there no virtue extant?' Look
around, and say whether the darkness and
guilt that forms the burthen of those fictions
which you defend, does not far overbear the
actiial Proportion in real life ? Have not our
bogs and mountains their scenes of quiet con-
tented virtue — of noble sufFering — of generous
forgiveness — of strong, rüde intellect and con-
stant love, to match the * black attone' of turbu-
lence — impatience— revenge — credulous folly,
and licentious passion which you would at-
tribute to them? Orif the idea of mirth and

INTRODUCTION. XXI

innocence, and milk and water be so closely
associated in their eyes — let them tum to the
Ireland that once was — and say, whether they
cannot find there a theme worthy of the most
splendid and varied capabilities. Are there
not materials for descriptive energy in the
Sports of Tailton, the cosherings of the
tioseach, and the conceits of the crotaries?
Is there not sufficient variety of character,
Comic, tragic, chivalrous, and profound, from
the daltin up to the Ard-righ ? Can the Jerna
of the Stagyrite, and Orpheus of Crotona — tlfe
Juverna of Juvenal, of Pomponius Mela, and
Solinus — the luernia of Ptolemy — the Iris
of Diodorus Siculus— the Iren of the author
of Gildas Badonicus— the lerne of Claudian, of
Strabo, and of Stephen of Bizance— the Ogygia
of O'Flaherty and Plutarch," [not Plutarch
and OTlaherty] " the Hibernia of Caesar, of
Pliny, Tacitus, and Orosius, can this ancient
land afFord no subject for the imagination of

XXU INTRODUCTION.

the writer of fiction among the sixteen nations
described by Marcianus Heracleota, in bis
tract called Periplous ?"

"This leaves Jenkinson and tbe cosmogony
far in the distance/' said I in my own mind,
surveying my companion with a certain invo-
luntary feeling of suspicion which I have enter-
tained towards very learned talkers ever since
I read Goldsmith's tale. ßefore I could reply,
my bostess entered to teil me that the boat
was afloat ; and I saw, on looking from
the window, the men tugging hard at the
peak-halliard, while the loose and tarred
mainsail flapped in the pleasant westerly
wind that was just springing up. I left the
antiquarian, for such I nöw conjectured bim
to be, at bis studies, and hastened on
board.

The reader will perceive that I have acted
on the hints furnished by my fair hostess, in
the first of these Tales, and should they meet

INTRODUCTION. xxÜi

with the simshine of his approbation, it may
be easy to shew, before long, that I have not
slept on that which was thrown out by the
Periwinkle of the bogs*

CARD DRAWING.

VOL. I.

SONNETS.— INTRODUCTORY.
I.

Friends, far away — and late in life exiled —
Whene'er these scattered pages meet your gaze,

Think of the scenes where early fortune smiled —
The land tliat was your home in happier days —
The sloping lawn, to which the tired rays

Of evening stole o'er Shannon's sheeted flood —
The hüls of Cläre, that in its softening haze,

Looked vapour-like and dim — the lonely wood —
The cliiF bound Inch — the chapel in the glen,

Where oft with bare and reverent locks we stood,

To hear th' Eternal truths — the small, daik maze
Of the wild stream that clipp'd the blossom'd piain.

And toiling through the varied solitude,

Uprais'd its hundred silver tongues and babbled praise.

II.

That home is desolate ! — our quiet hearth

Is ruinous and cold — and many a sight
And many a sound are met of vulgär mirth,

Where once your gentle laughter cheered the night —
It is as with your country. The calm light

Of social peace, for her is quenched too —
Rüde Discord blots her scenes of old delight.

Her gentle virtues scared away — like you.
Remeraber her, when in this Tale ye meet

The Story of a struggling right — of ties

Fast bound, and swiftly rent — of joy — of pain —
Legends, which by the cottage-fire sound sweet —

Nor let the hand that wakes those memories

(In faint, but fond assay) be unremembered then.

CARD DRAWING.

Is this my welcome homel — Soüthernk.

Those who are deservedly loud in their com-
mendations of the gallantry displayed by
British seamen during the last war, have gene-
rally been willing to admit that those sup-
porters of the national flag whom Ireland sent
to man our fleets, did not tread the decks
like children. We shall, however, content
ourselves with referring our readers who may
be curious on the subject, to the chronicles
of Mr. James, or any other naval Tacitus of
the day, for examples of the truth of the Ob-
servation, as we wish not to encumber our
slender narrative with any unnecessary his-
torical detail.

CARD DRAWING.

Whether Mr. James records the exploits of
a certain Duke Dorgan, a young sailor, from
the shores of Kerry, or no, I am not aware ;
but it is not likely that many names have been
enrolled in his pages more distinguished by
a modest valour (such as contents itself with
doing all for duty, and nothing for vanity)^
than that of the person we have just men-
tioned, The result of his professional exer-
tions, and of a common-rate prudence (a rare
naval virtue in the present day, and still more
so at the time we speak of), was, the fortunate
arrival of the young man on his native shores,
with a character unspotted by any act of in-
subordination or servility, and a quantity of
prize-money sufficient (and more than suffi-
cient) to supply the " chair-days" of his life,
with every comfort that necessity suggested,
and every luxury to which his limited expe-
rience in that way, might induce him to aspire.
There were circumstances, however, in his
early life, which, independent of any view to

CARD DRAWING. 7

mere personal gratification, made him feel
happy in his competence.

*' You are in the right," says the fine^
minded and light-hearted Ganganelli in one
of his letters to a friend, " to engraft the Ita-
lian gaiety upon the French : it is the way tq
live to a hundred/' In like manner might his
historian say of Duke Dorgan, that he en*
grafted the Irishman's gaiety upon the sailor's,
and produced the blossoms of the one, and
the fruit of the other, in such abundance, as
made him highly populär among his mess-
mates. He was, to speak in less figurative
language, a lively, handsome, clear-headed,
intelligent young person, with a round, well-
moulded frame, bright auburn curling hair,
and a hazel eye of excelling shrewdness, and
when occasion required, of sparkling violence
and resolution, indicating a mind of irregulär
strength, and a heart in which the passions
had not been always subjected, notwithstand-
ing the general even tenour of his life, to the

jj CARD DRAWING.

most rigid discipline. But as the reader may
observe throughout these tales, an ambition
to render thera almost as analogous to the
drama as Fielding rendered bis to the epic,
(a circumstance in which the public taste
seems, fortunately, to coincide with our in-
clination), we shall allow our hero to intro-
duce himself, in the fashionable manner, in the
course of an incidental scene, which took
place on the evening when bis vessel arrived
in the offing of Loup Head, the well known
point of land which forms the northern ex-
tremity of the shore that bounds the queen of
Irish streams.

This part of the coast is remarkable for
some wild and striking points of scenery,
similar, in its general chaiacter, to those by
which nearly the whole ränge of the south-
western coast is distinguished. The traveller
is Struck by the boldness and ruggedness of
the lofty cliifs which oppose their rocky
ßtrength to the waves of the Atlantic, and by

CARD DRAWING. 9

the magnitude of the caverns underneath,
which, previoiis to the late vigorous exertions
made by the guardians of therevenae, afforded
a number of useful natural warerooms to the
contrabandists who traded to and from the
Flushing coast, and served at the same time
as lurking-places to the seals, the hunting of
which constituted, at that period, one of the
chief sources of profit to the fishermen of the
neighbouring villages. At a small distance
from the Light-House which is erected at the
head, there stood, during the war, one of those
Signal towers, by which telegraphic intelli-
gence was transmitted round the Cape, as far
as Cork, whenever a hostiie sail ventured
within the influence of an Irish breeze in the-
offing; and still farther in the direction of
the river's source was the village of Kilbaha,
whose commerce consisted then, as well as at
present, in turf, transmitted by boats to the
interior of the country. The coast is very
thickly inhabited, and the people yet preserve
B 2

10 CARD DRAWING.

in a great degree, the primitive and natural
manners oftheirprogenitors. They talk Irish
— kill fish — go to sea in canoes — trafiic in
kind — eat potatoes and oaten bread — and
exercise themselves in offices of kindness and
hospitality towards strangers. This lattei
virtue has, however, in some parts of the re-
gion suffered injury from the efflux of bathers
from the interior in the summer season, which
taught them the use and convenience of ready
money, in preference to their patriarchal modes
of payment; and gave them, unfortunately,
a more decided impression of its value than
was consistent with the general character of
Munster cottagers. The effect appears to
have been similar to that which the liberality
of English travellers has produced on the con-
tinent.

But that portion of the county which con-
stitutes the extreme South West, and which
is almost cut off from the remainder, by the
large creek or bay of Scagh, which reduces it

CARD DRAWING. 11

almost to a peninsula, presents a very remark-
able contrast, in Ih« condition and moral cha-
racter of its inhabitants, to all the rest of
Munster — perhaps we might say, Ireland.
The country, though exceeding bleak and
wild at first sight, is found on furtheracquaint-
ance to be well cultivated, producing oats,
potatoes and flax in considerable quantities.
On ascending any eminence and looking
around, the land appears to the traveller to
be little better than one lonely waste of bog
— the huts or mud cottages being of the gene-
ral colour of the soil, and scarcely distinguish-
able from it, while the whole wears a duU and
monotonous hue, to which the numerous turf-
reeks scattered over the landscape contribute
in a great degree. On closer Observation,
however, he begins to discern innumerable
Clusters of wigwam mud cabins, some of an
unusual size, with thatched bee-hive roofs,
corded so as to provide against the winter
«torms. Their inhabitants are all of one class;

12 CARD DRAWING.

scarcely a single dwelling-house of what is
termed a respectable appearance existing in
the neighbourhood of the cottager —

" To shame the meanness of bis humble sbed."

They are contradistinguished from Irish
landholders in general, by their apparent
poverty and real wealth (many a tenant of
clay walls being able without much inconveni-
ence to give a dowry of some hundreds to bis
daughter) — as well as by their regulär perse-
vering industry — their extreme ignorance —
their want of curiosity in all speculative mat-
ters— and their perfect unacquaintance with
those populär themes of debate, which set all
the rest of the island by the ears. They tili their
gardensquietly, as their fathers did before them
■ — learn little and care for less — obey their priest
in all reasonable matters, and pay him like
princes — go to market with their oats and po-
tatoes — eat — drink — dance — laugh — sleep and
die. They have no tyrants — no proctors — no
^liddlemen — no demagogues — no meetings — ^

CARD DRAWING. 13

no politics. Under wbatever Standard the
hörn of insurrection is sounded through other
parts of Ireland, whether under Rock, his lady,
Starlight, Moonshine, or Moll Doyle, its echo
dies into silence long before it has reached the
peace-accustomed ears of this primitive people.
Limited in their desires still more than in their
enj oyments, the political condition of the coun-
try afFects them but little — and they are silent
even on the eternal topic of Catholic Emanci-
pation. What is of the utmost advantage, so far
as the peace and good order of the Community
is concerned, there are very few idle young men
in the country — as the tillage of their gardens
during one portion of the year, and the pre-
paring of sand manure, of turf, marketing, and
making kelp on the coast during the remainder,
compel them to labour hard and continually.
The tone of mind which the people display, is
certainly not in accordance with the magnifi-
cent natural wonders which abound on the
coast, and of which the reader will find some

14 CARD ÖRAWING.

Sketches, at their appropriate places in the
body of the tale.

If, however, the object of all improvement in
science or knowledge be to increase the hap-
piiiess of men, it is very questionable, whether
it would be acting the part of a friend to this
people, to wish that they should be deprived
of the bliss of ignorance and comfort in which
they are at present shrouded — so far at least a§
the luxuries of life are concerned. Certainly,
we express no inimical sentiment in hoping
that it may be long before they are split and
sundered into the unsocial distinctions of
rank — before they prefer elegant poverty to
humble comfort — before a selfish landlord (no
unprecedented occurrence) shall scatter the
peasantry from their happy, lowly homes — and
yeomanize the soil.

On the evening when Dorgan*s ship stood
towards the mouth of the river, the inmates of
the signal tower before mentioned were endea-
vouring to quicken the tardy-gaited hours of

CARD DRAWING. 15

sunset, by all the contrivances which their
tastes and opportunities could enable them to
use. The lieutenant of the water guards was
quietly seated in bis apartment, sipping a
tumbler of wbat he called stif ipxmch — with bis
waistcoat tbrown open, bis legs stretched out,
and a cooling sea breeze just fanning the long
hair tbat sbaded bis red and jolly countenance.
In th€ room underneatb, were two sailors at
draugbts and grog, wbile outside the open win-
dow, seated on a wooden form, and basking in
the evening sun, were a number of the guardS,
ehatting witb two or tbree rosy cheeked-girls
who sat nearthem, blushing and smiling in all
tbe conscious finery of clean caps and ribands,
and mincing out their few phrases of English to
the best advantage — tbatbeingyet considered
as a kiud of boliday dialect in these districts.

'* Oy say, you Paddy there with the halter
about your waist (instead of your neck)," said
one of the soldiers to a lean, pale-looking,
sullen-eyed, hard, straight lipped fellow, with

16 CARD DRAWING.

a few staring locks of dank hair scattered on
his brow, and a hay rope tied sashwise about
bis person — '' Oy say, can you teil us what
all thern 'ere papishes are doing about the
shore ?"

He pointed to several groups of tbe country
men,women, and children, who were employed
in gathering heaps of a species of sea-weed
among tbe rocks on the water's edge, at tbe
little bay of Fodhra ; wbile others were kneel-
ing in prayer at difFerent parts of tbe coast.
Tbe person to wbom tbe querist addressed
bimself for Information, seemed, by tbe more
than equable indifference witb wbicb be lis-
tened to tbe insulting speecb of tbe latter, to
be one of tbose beaten down cbaracters, to
wbom degradation is so familiär, tbat tbey bad
ratber lie tamely under tbe mostcontemptuous
sligbts, tban undergo tbe intolerablelabour of
supporting an independent and manly bearing.
He possessed all (and more tban all) tbe com-
plaisance, witbout any of tbe confident and

CARD DRAWING; 17

ready spirit of the Irish character — but under-
neath all the cringing servility of his manner — :
the ready obedience of eye and ear — and the
musing, absent dulness of demeanour which
formed the outer crust and pastry work of the
man, there was in his small grey eye, mouth
close shut and forming one hard line across,
thin straight hair, and meagre, unfed cheek,
an unpleasant depth of character, such as
Julius Csesar (that hater of lean and hungry
looks) might not have loved to contemplate.

" Gatheren the dhoolamaun they are, Sir,"
he said in reply to the question of the guard.
" Dhoolamaun,'* he continued, answering to
the puzzled look of the latter—" that's a kind
of say-weed that they take home wit 'em to boil
and make greens of/'

"Make greens o^ the sea-weed!^' exclaimed
the Englishman — " Well, come — that's a good
un, however. Oy say, Jack !" addressing hira-
self to one of the two sailors, who were still
pursuing their game of draughts in the roon^

18 CARD DRAWING.

behind, (with the rapidity peculiar to the naval
adepts in this pastime) — *'you come here and
See wliat a bull Paddy has raade/*

'* Stall the animal until I've done my game/'
replied the sailor, ** I hufF your man, Tom,
playon."

" Well, Paddy — '' continued the witty pro-
tector of His Majesty's colours — " and what
are those folks doing on their marrow bones
along the shore ? Saying mass, eh ?"

" Oh, not at all, Sir — none could say that
only a priest. They're sayen a prayer that
way, Sir, o' 'count o' Candlemas-day — a great
feast, or holUdaij, Sir — an oald custom they
have."

*' Are yoa a papish, Paddy ?"

** Oyeh then, Fm nothenat all now, Sir — I
was a fish-joulter, but the times are hard vvit
uz," Said the man with inimitable simplicity.

*' A fish-jolter?" said the guard, " that's a
sect I ha' nt heard öf. How should you like
to go to sea, I say, you Irish Paddy ?"

CAKD DRAWING. 19

"HeM like it well enough" said the sailor,
"ifhe could live the same lubber's life be-
tween decks, with nothing to do from morning
to night but scold the cabin boy, and kick the
cat into the lee scuppers. You Irish make
tight sailors for all that. — A king, Tom — crown
him — back water there, man, you can't move
your man that way/'

A cry of " a sail" from some person stationed
overhead, interrupted this refined conversa-
tion, and drew the attention of the interlocu-
tors to the waste of ocean, which lay nursing'
its giant strength in a lolling calm before them.
The signal was inimediately hoisted on the
tower, and answered by the vessel with the em-
blems of friendship. In a short time after,
a small boat was lowered from her side, and
manned for the shore. When she touched
the beach, a young man in a sailor's jacket
and trowsers with a small bündle in bis band,
leaped lightly to shore after shaking hands
cordially with each of the crew in turn. They

20

CARD DRAWING.

gave him a cheer as he ascended the rocks,
which he answered by waving his hat several
times in the air. The draught players and the
group at the Tower, all but those on guard,
sauntered towards the beach leaving the coun-
tryman who had been the object of their mirth
alone at the window.

He looked after them for some moments
with a changed and darkening eye. " A
sailor!" he exclaimed at length in soliloquy
— " its easy for 'era to talk, an to laugh, an be
merry — if they were as long without vittels as
I am, ril engage 'twould be a new story wit
'«m. Go to say, says he? Why then, I de-
clare, 'twould be Vmost as good as for me to
be this way always. — If it be a man's luck to
be shot or drown'ded, sure better that at wanst
than to be ever an always pullen ould Nick be
the tail, from year's end to year's end. — When
Duke Dorgan went to say I was glad of it, be-
cause he left little Pennie Mc Loughlen to my-
self, an I thought when he'd be away that Fd

CARD DRAWING. 21

have the field clear both with herseif and the
father. But in a place o' that bere I am now
driven out o' bouse, an bome, an all that's bap-
pennen, Duke is to be out o' barm's way at
any rate." Here be stopped and fixed bis eyes
steadfastly on tbe young man before mentioned.
" Tbere*s an old saying, tbat if you talk o'tbe
old boy bimself, be'll appear, an if tbat beant
Duke Dorgan, or bis gbost walken eastwards,
Fm dark, for certain. TU try bim nearer.*'

He burried after tbe young sailor, wbo bad
taken tbe patb leading towards Kilbaba, and*
was merrily pursuing bis route, cbaunting in a
quarter-deck key, a stave of tbe populär sea
song of Willy Taylor, and bis '^ lady free,"
Casting, as besung,a ratber anxious eye toward
tbe waste of barren beatb and sand wbicb lay
between bim and tbe interior.

" With that she called for sword and pistol
" Which did come at her command —
" An she shot her Willie Taylor
*' With his fair one in his hand.'*

*' I say messmate," be said as tbe country-

22 CARD DRAVVING.

man approached him — " can you tow me on
the track of Carrigaholt?"

"The path is under your futt every step o'
the way," said the man. — Then after pacing
behind him in silence for a few minutes —
" Why then, for one that puts out the futt so
slow, I never seen any body carry so much o'
the road wit 'em,* as you do, Mr. Duke, lord
bless you."

"You know me?" said the other, turning
and fixing bis eye on the Speaker; then with
an air of greater reserve, as he recognized
the face — ** and I onght to know you, too.
That face is Pryce Kinchela's — if you have'nt
stole it from him."

" I wish that was all I had belongen to Pryce
Kincbela about me," said the man, heavily.

" I am glad to see you, Pryce."

" I don't know whether you are or not, Duke ;
but Pm glad to see you — although you may
well doubt me word. I am an altered man
* Make «o great progress.

CARD DRAWING. 23

since you left the country — and the foolish
«pite tbat you an I had then about Pennie Mac
Loughlen — (the Silver Penny as you called her
- — an the Luck Penny as I called her) is no
more than boy's play, to the cause I got since
from others. — That girl, Duke, was no Luck
Penny to either you or me. After her father
refused you, an you went to sea — sure what do
you think o' me but med up to her, an if I did
you'd think it was to threaten to murder her I
did, the father got so wild— an ever after he kep
persecuten me rightand left, until he did'nt lay
me a leg to stand on. If you're not tired, an
would wish to rest a piece here on this rock,
rU teil you how it was."

Dorgan complied— although the lengthening
shadows on the sand and the fresheningbreeze
of the sharp February evening advised him of
the necessity of securing some place of shelter
for the night. — Fearful of overburthening the
reader with the quaint idiom of the country —
of which perhaps, a superabundance must be

24 CARD DRAWING.

thrown into these histories — I shall, while
Pryce is detailing bis story to our young hero
inform him, in more intelligible language,
of the nature of the incidents which had re-
duced him to bis present discontented condi-
tion of mind, and furnish a slight sketch of his
character — both being mournfully illustrative
of the State of Munster life in bis rank.

Those, perhaps, wbo are fond of arguing
on the existence of innate propensities in the
human mind, which no influence of education,
circumstance, or volition can oversway, might
find reason to alter their opinion if an oppor-
tunity were afForded of tracing the bistory of
the individual nature which formed the subject
of disquisition back to its earliest impulse,
either toward good or evil. However casuists
may assert (in the face of honesty, and com-
mon sense), that the very exertion of the will
itself which induces us to adopt any evil course
is a species of compulsion, which relieves us
in justice from responsibility, there is not one

CARD DRAWING. ^5

even of those sensible fellows, who, in regret-
ting an evil action, which he had thus under
the tyranny of his own free will been com-
pelled to commit, will dare to say to his own
secret consciousness that he could not have
held his band at the moment that he know-
ingly acted ill. As the royal astrologer, how-
ever, says of the planets, in La vida es Suerto,
that they incline, but do not compel the con-
duct of men, so might it be said of the influ-
ence of the exterior circumstances of life upon
the human character— and judging frorn the*
general indolence of mankind in resisting the
influence of those circumstances, it might be
safely conjectured that the common routine of
Munster cottage life and education would pro-
duce that recklessness of blood and outrage
among ani/ people, with which it has of late
years been fashionable to charge the inhabi-
tants of this quarter of Ireland — as a natural
propensity, The two individuals whom we have
just introduced to our readers, presented in-

VOL. I. c

26 CARD DRAWING.

stances of the efFect of those circumstances,

botb in different ways. They were both taught

to fight their own battles in childhood, both

were instructed in the mysteries of the "Read-

ing-made-easy," under the same hedge-school

tyrant, a low ruffian, who, for the small sum of

two and sixpence, or more Hibernically speak-

ing, three tenpennies a quarter, undertook to

pull their hair, break deal rulers (or strokers)

upon their little hands, lift them up by the

ears for the slightest orthographical mistake,

lash their naked and bleeding shins three

times a day with a huge birchen rod, by way

of stimulating them to greater application, and

teach them to read and write into the bargain.

The manner in which the two boys acted under

this treatraent was very different. Pryce sel-

dom complained, even to a school-fellow, of the

torture which was inflicted on him; sometimes

bis lip trembled and a tear stood in his eye

when the pain given was extreme, but gene-

rally the patience and fortitude of endurance

CARD DRAWING. 27

which he shewed, was such as to touch even
the rocky heart of the Munster Dionysius with
remorse. Duke, on the contrary, was a loud
and noisy rebel ; he kicked, plunged, remon-
strated, threatened murder and assassination,
and a thousand other things, which redoubled
his afflictions, and which were forgotten by
himself as soon as the latter were suspended.
On three or four occasions, however, when the
pedagogue had been particularly severe on
both boys, he received on his way home
through a wood in the neighbourhood a bloW
from a heavy stone, discharged by some secret
hand, which never failed to draw the blood in
profusion from his head, and at one time in-
flicted such a wound as considerably to en-
danger his life. His suspicions naturally feil
on Duke, but to his astonishment and mortifi-
cation, the clearest alibi was always made
out for the boy, and no possible investiga-
tion could lead to the real delinquent.
There was no doubt that one of his pupils was

28 CARD DRAWING.

the criminal, but whoever he might be, he kept
ihe triumph of his revenge, contrary to the
usual wont of school-boys, a secret from the
whole World Duke, nevertheless, did not at
any time attempt to conceal his satisfaction at
the occurrence.

Another circumstance placed the disposi-
tions of the youths in singular apposition.
Among the little girls who occupied the row
of round stones placed along the wall opposite
to the boys, was a little flaxen-haired coquette
named Penelope Mo Loughlen, whose blue
eyes and cherry lips had made sad work in the
hearts of the young dabblers in etymology.
Their afFection, however, was manifested in a
yery difFerent manner. While Duke fought
for her, carried her over streams and ditches,
and treated her to an occasional " hayporth"
of sugar-candy — Price mended her feque,^
folded her thumb-paper, and taught her the
analogy between C and half a griddle, H and

• Used inpointingtheletteisout — OrthogTaphically— /«cue.

CARD DRAWING. 29

a haggard-gate ; so that like the wavering
mistress of the Two Noble Kinsmen, her afFec-
tions were divided between the manly frank-
ness, courage, and generosity of the former,
and the silent attentions and profound learning
of the latter lover. As they approached the
years of manhood (he is a long-lived Irishman
that reaches those of discretion), the relation
of the parties towards each other continued
almost the same ; but that of the lady to them
was altered. Her heart, according as its capa-
bility of discriminating and appreciating the
worth of character became more acute, in-
clined toward the side of the frank and hearty
Duke. He was, to use a homely but forcible
metaphor which is populär in her country,
" that kind of man that the wrong side of him
was turned out every day,"while her womanly
shrewdness told her^that she had not yet seen
more than the sunny half of his rival. She
ventured, with the due proportion of maiden
reluctance and timidity, to confess this pre-

30 CARD DRAWING.

ference to the enraptured Duke, and with true
filial spirithad her partiality ripened into pas-
sion lasting and iramoveable, when her lover
proposed for her and was scornfully rejected
by her father. Duke went to sea, and Kin-
chela, after beating about the point with the
caution which his rival's experience had
taught him to use, tried his luck with no
better success. It was indeed reported for
ßome time after in the neighbourhood, that his
rejection had been still more unceremonious
than poor Dorgan's — a rumour which was pro-
bably founded on the fact that Penny never
heard the circumstance alluded to without
smothering a laugh, and that the old man
(who was rather fiery in his temper) sent the
shoe of his right foot to be mended the same
evening, with a rent about the toe, which
ßhewed as if considerable violence had been
used with it. After this, Pryce had been,
up to the present time, falling from clifF
to cliff downward through the dark vale

CARD DRAWING. 31

of adversity, until he found himself at last
stretched, fairly baflBed, and spirit-broken at
the bottom.

*'And you take it so tamely!** exclaimed
the young sailor, when Pryce had come to a
close, — ** I would have given the fellow'a rope's
end at any rate, if not round the neck, across
the Shoulders at least."

*'Is that all you 'd do to him?" asked
Pryce, quietly.

*' All ! 'Tis more, it seems, than you *d do —
butyouwereeveran'alvvaysapoorpatients/o^!"

" Was I ?" said Kinchela, with a smile, the
expression of which, from his turning away bis
head while he spoke, it was evident he did not
wish to give Duke an opportunity of specu-
lating upon. '' But I believe 'tis time for us
to think of parting, Mr. Dorgan. If you stop in
Carrigaholt to-morrow at the Bee-hive, you '11
see me there before you, and we '11 have a little
more crusheening together yourself an myself ;
I have a call to make westwards before I go."

32 CARD DRAWING.

They parted — and Dorgan pursued his route,
not without a certain feeling of contempt for
the easy indifFerence with which his former
rival sustained the spirit-rousing slights that
had been cast upon him. These unpleasant
feelings, however, were soon displaced by an-
ticipations, such as might naturally be sup-
posed to occur to a young and ardent heart on
its return from a long exile to the home and
the friends of his early life. He feit perfectly
assured that old Mc Loughlen could not resist
the influence of the wealth and honour he had
acquired during many years of service, as
eventful and perilous (for the deck which he
trod was that which called Nelson captain),
as ever British Seaman braved; and as he was
himself eminently tinged with that " forgive-
and-forget" spirit which forms one of the cha-
racteristics of his nation, he looked forward
with an impatient generosity to the hour of
reconciliation. He turned aside in fancy from
the father's rough hand-shake and repentant

CARD DRAWING. 33

greeting', to the blushing cheek and joyoiis
eye of his now womanly Penny, whom he pic-
tured to himself standing bashfully behind her
fatber, and waiting with a throbbing heart and
trembling frame to meet him with a true-love
welcome. As he thought of those things he
doubled his pace, and made the sand hüls flit
so rapidly behind him, that the traces of the
outer coast were presently lost, and the sound
of the distant waste of ocean came faint and
far upon his ear.

The February evening soon began to draw
to a close, and the wind, which blew from the
sea, acquired a sharpness and coldness which
furnished Dorgan with an additional though
less sentimental reason for quickening his
Steps. He was almost in a solitude — the
clouds began to lower and darken upon his
path — while the occasional scream of a horse-
guU as it swooped around him, and with diffi-
culty upheld its light and feathery bulk
against the rising wind, together with the
c 2

34 CARD DRAWING.

dreary whistling of that wind itself as it
wafted over bis head the sea-foam that was
broken on the clifFs at half a mile distant,
formed the only sounds that varied the dead
nionotony of the scene around him. The ab-
sence of public roads, moreover (for this was
long before Mr. Killala, the excellent engineer,
was sent to visit this part of the country),
contributed to throw an air of greater wildness
and loneliness over its surface, so that Dorgan
feit by no means at bis ease when the dark-
ness, which speedily banished the reflection
of the last ray of sunset from the sky, left him
to grope bis way, without a pilot through this
tractless waste of gloom. His eyes, accom-
modating their power of vision in some time
to the darkness which at first seemed almost
äquivalent to blindness, enabled him, after a
few hours' hard Walking, to discover at a little
distance one of those miserable huts which but
too often forms the only asylum in which the
poor Munster cottager can find a refuge from

CARD DR A WIN G. 35

the tyranny of the " winter's flaw." The soft-
ness of the soil beneath his feet informed him,
moreover, that he had arrived on better culti-
vated land, while a disparting at the sarae time
of the vapours above enabled him to discover,
a few perches from the place where he stood,
a comfortable looking farm house, with a hag-
gard, stored with two or three Stacks of hay
and reed. Unwilling to disturb at so unsea-
sonable an hour the slumbering inmates of the
dwelling, and uncertain, besides, of the recep-
tion he might meet with, Dorgan resolved to
spend the remainder of the night in the dry
and still recess formed by the grouping of the
Stacks. He stepped over the haggard slile,
and, after shaking down some of the sweet hay
on the ground, he flung himself at füll length
on this'simple natural couch,placed his bündle
under his head, and was speedily lost in the
wilderness of monkey-visions among which
the unchained Fancy of the sleeperloves to ex-
ercise her magic skill.

36 CARD DRAWING.

We cannot afFord, nevertheless, to sit long
idly by our hero while he slumbers, so that
the reader will have the complaisance to ima
gine the winter-night already past, and the
ßummons of the *' early" cock shrilling in his
vexed and drowsy ear. As he avvoke and
turned on his rüde pallet, the murmuring of
human voices within a few feet of the spot
where he lay, arrested his attention. He lis-
tened, almost unconscious of what he was
doing, and totally forgetful of its impropriety,
while the following conversation passed be-
tween two Speakers. The voices were those of
females ; one of them, from the sweetness and
richness of the tones, a young — and the other,
from the harshness and hard vulgarity of the
accent, evidently an old woman.

" I walked," said the younger, in a tone of
gentle discontent and remonstrance, " three
miles to meet you here since the day-dawn,
and I must be back again and have the cows
spancelled, and the milk set, and the men's

CARD DRAWING. 37

breakfast ready before my father gets up ; for
if he knew I came to see you, he'd kill me.
And here you kept me a whole hour, waiting
for you.'*

" Don't blarae me, a-voureen," was the
soothing reply; "I am an old woman, and
you're so young, that your blood is running
yet like cherry-brandy in your veins. When
you see as rnuch of the härm that's done in
the day-light as I have, darlen, you won't be
in such a hurry to shorten the night as you
were this mornen."

" Well, let US say no more of it. You told
me last night, before my father came in and
found you in the kitchen, that you could teil
me secrets that nobody knew but myself."

" What eise did I get my gift for ? When I
was an infant at the breast, my mother gay me,
by the directions of an appärrishun that she
Seen, three drops of a cow's first milk after
calving, before the young came a-near her,
and that's the reason the gift is upon me now."

dB CARD DRAWING.

" Teil me, then," and here the girl hesitated
a moment, *' teil me, 'tili I try you. Have I
a sweetheart, or no?"

It needed not a ghost come from the grave
to solve this profound question, and so thought
Duke Dorgan, as he recognised in the eider
female, from the tenour of the conversation,
one of those idle and worse than idle charac-
ters whose trade it was, and is (though the
increasing knowledge of the peasantry in
other parts of the country has rendered their
profits much less considerable than they were),
to wander from house to house, defrauding
silly cottage girls, and, rumour asserts, some
silly men too, of their hardly-earned monies,
under the pretence of giving them a fi'-penny
or a ten-penny peep into futurity, according
to the length of their purses and their cu-
riosity. The means which these worthies
most commonly used to arrive at a know-
ledge of "Coming events" was some mystical
calculation on a pack of cards ; and instances

CARD DRAWING. 39

have fallen within the circle of our own expe-
rience where those " Card-drawers," as they
are popularly termed, were permitted and in-
vited to exercise their skill in gull-catching in
other than cottage Company. — But to continue
our tale.

"Reach me your band, darlen," said the
Card-drawer, " ont'l I feel your pulse a piece."
There was a pause of a few rainutes when she
resumed. " The blood beats warm, but it
does'nt come from the heart. Your heart is
not your own, and the boy that has it is far
away from you."

A gentle exclamation of astonishraent from
the young inquirer shewed that the Card-
drawer had judged right.

'* Teil me news of him/' was the next re-
quest, made in panting eagerness ; " if it be
good I will give you another half-crown."

"Oy, indeed!" said the Card-drawer, with
an affected indignation, " as if all the silver in
your purse, although it was as long as the

40 CARD DRAWING.

king's, that they say if you held one end of it
and I held another, we iieyer 'ad meet, would
make bad good or good bad." Here Dorgan
heard the shufiling of a pack of cards.
*' We'll try what it is, any way. Draw a card,
an' face the east. What is it V

*'The King o' diamonds."

"Gondoutha! Good. Drawagain. Well?"

"The ace o' hearts."

" Allilu ! better an' better again, why.
Draw once raore."

** The Queen o' spades."

" That's yourself. All good. Your lover is
comen home wit a sighth o' money, and as fond
o' you as ever."

" I thank you, and you're a good creature,"
said the young female, in accents that were
broken by the agitation of delight. *' Hush !
I hear something stirring near us. Good
morning, the sun is high, and TU be killed if
my father finds me out, when he gets up."

" Stay one moment, a-gra-gal. You forget

CARD DRAWING. 41

that trifle you wor talken of. 'Tisn*t for the
sake o' the lucre I'd talk, but as we wor men-
tionen it at all — "

*' Oh, the half-crown? I had quite forgot it,
I declare. Here it is, my good woman. If
what you say comes to pass, I will make that
a great deal niore ; if you have been only de-
ceiving rae, because I am young, and my heart
foolish and credulous, may heaven forgive you
for it ! it would be doing no better than to put
a blind man on a wrong path."

" An' there 's few that would do that,
a-calleen/' said the Card-drawer, as t Urning
füll within Dorgan's sight, while he heard the
young girl, whom she had been duping, trip
lightly through the rushes, she put the piece
of silver in a corner of her handkerchief, made
aknot about it, and thrust it into her dark and
withered bosom. Before she discovered him,
as he lay stretched on the hay, our hero had
a füll opportunity of observing her face and
figure ; and as forming one of a class of per-

42 CARD DRAWING.

sons who exercised a considerable influence
over the minds of the peasantry of her coun-
try, the reader perhaps will allow us to
present a brief sketch of what he saw, in
defiance of Meg Merrilies and all her bony
sisterhood.

It is almost impossible to conceive how so
raany shreds and rags could hang together as
composed this wotnan's dress. There did not
appear to be two Square inches about her in
one piece, and her whole costume shook in
the mornlng wind like the foliage of a tree,
yet she had even a warm and comfortable
look. Duke never saw in his life before,
such a mountain of rags. How they were
all united puzzled him more than the mys-
tery of the tides of Negropont did the Sta-
gyrite. Her shoes, or more properly (if they
must have a name) her brogues, were in pieces,
yet her feet were perfectly covered — partly
with straw thrust into the fissures raade in the
leather, and in part with the Fragments of an

CARD DRAWING. 43

old woollen stocking. To find a name for each
article of clothing which she wore, would have
beeil impossible. — She had, to speak triily,
neither gown, nor petticoat, nor cloak — yet
clad she was from top to toe, and that fully. It
seemed as if her dress had been built up about
her from the ground, of all manner of frag-
ments. Her head-dress, as it was simple, was
less equivocal than the rest of her costume. —
It consisted of a large red and yellow handker-
chief, under which her gray hair, rolled up on
something similar to what ladies call a Johnny'
was fastened — so as to present an appearance
like that of a very low tete ; two corners of the
kerchief were tied under her peaked and lengthy
chin, while the others were sufFered to flutter
in the wind, or hang idly over the back of her
head. Over her right Shoulder was tl.rowna
number of hare, kid, and rabbit skins, together
with a bündle of unclarified goose-quills, both
of which she had picked up in her peregrina-
tions for a trifle, to dispose of them at a due

44 CARD DRAWING.

profit to the skin and feather merchants of St.
John's Gate, in Limerick, — this forming the
ostensible calling, under cover of which she
carried on her more lucrative trade of " card
drawing," or telling of fortunes.

The features of the Card-drawer, were cal-
culated by their expression to aid her consi-
derably in the efForts which she made to acquire
an influence over the weak and credulous minds
of those who were accustomed to consult her.
The small weasel eyes, set at an extraordinary
distance from each other, in which a person of
common penetration could have discovered
nothing more than the light of that "crooked
wisdom/' usually denominated cunning, which
is so useful to persons of her profession, seemed
to her wondering dupes to be füll of a piercing
sagacity, and a certain mysterious lustre, which
made their hearts stir uneasily within them.
Her forehead was broad and tanned by con-
tinual exposure to the weather — her nose flat
and yet large, presenting, together with the

CARD DRAWING. 45

disagreeable breadth of space, of which it
forraed the centre between the eyes, something
of the cast of countenance for which that race
of Italians are remarkable, who are said to be
the direct and lineal descendants of the old
Romans. Her mouth appeared to be other-
wise occupied than in afFording Duke an op-
portunity of observing its proportions, for it
was fast shut upon a pipe, the bowl of which
was fastened on the barrel ofa quill, that being
amore capacious conductor of thecomfortable
fume, than the narrow earthen tube originally
affixed to it.

She Started, when she saw Dorgan stretched
on his hay couch between the Stacks, and gaz-
ing steadily on her. ** Why, then, heaven
bless you, child, but that's a dhroll place for
you to be lyen; is it all night you wor out
that way?"

" Teil me/' said Dorgan, rising and taking
his bündle, without attending to, indeed with-
out hearing her question, — " who was that

46 CARD DRAWING.

young girl, that I heard speaking to you,
just now?"

** Vm afear'd," said the Card-drawer, looking
at him askance with one of her eyes, " youVe
in a greater hurry to hear that than I am to teil
you. Would you make a betrayer o' me ?"

" Not T, indeed," said Duke, " nor do I
wish you to answer the question, if there be
any confidence between you and her."

And turning on his heel, he was going to
jump on the stile, leading to the common foot-
path, when the old woman called to him.

" Easy a while, sailor ! Would you like to
have a body teil your forten V

" My fortune?" said Duke, with a laugh, —
" Go, you old rogue, did you think I'm one of
your woodcocks ? How would a sinner like
you (if it isn't judging you — but we're all
sinners) corae into the knowledge of Heaven's
secrets?"

" Oyeh, who pertends to any knowledge of
'em ? Fm sure I don't. I see nothen— I hear

CARD DRAWING. 47

nothen — I know nothen. — 'Tis all in this pack
o' Cards, it is— You draw for yourself— all I'll
do, is to teil you what it is — I know no more
o' you, than you do yourself, tili you draw, an'
then the cards '11 teil us."

Although Dorgan had very little of the su-
perstitious credulity which is common to raost
sailors in bis composition, hewas not destitute
of a certain portion of youthful curiosity. He
paused a moment, bis band resting on the stile
while he surveyed the old woman witb a gaze
of mingled condescension and smiling incre-
dulity. — " And what must I pay you for your
nonsense, old lady?"

** May I never die in sin, if I'd ask anythen
more genteel and off-band, tban tbat dollar
that's danglen be the ribbin to tbe breast o'
your coat."

** Dollar!" Dorgan exclaimed, with another
loud laugb, " You exorbitant bag ! Would
you bave me seil you my laureis? This is my
Trafalgar medal/' And he gazed on it with

48 CARD DRAWING.

an eye in which fondness and pride were
mingled.

The Card-drawer drew back respectfully,
and curtsied to the very ground. — *' If you
were one of Nelson's sailors," said she, —
" that great lord, that all the world is
in mourning for, this way, Fll take nothen
from you. Here draw your fate, an' wel-
come."

" I will," replied Dorgan, — " but not gratis,
my good woman. Here/' putting a half-crown
into her band, and assuming a more cordial
manner (whicli I request my reader will not
attribute to the flattering humility of the Card-
drawer's demeanour) — " put up this — and let
me draw my fate, as you call it."

'* The heavens bless your honour ! Face the
East, sin Well what have you drawn?"

" A scoundrelly, bandy-legged knave o*
Clubs."

" I am sorry for you, young man," said the
Card-drawer, in a tone of deep concern.

CARD DRAWING. 49

'* Draw again, sir, and hope for better luck.
Well, what Card istbat?"

" The same squint-eyed knave, as Pm alive.
Is tbere ill-luck in the fellow's phiz ?"

" You miist draw tbree cards, before I can
answer any questions. Here ! — there is but one
other chance between you and a very ill forten.
Well, is there any better luck, now ?"

Dorgan drew a third time, and started back
when he looked on the card, as if he had seen
a ghost.

" I insist/* Said he vehemently, *' on seeing
the pack — there are none but knaves o' clubs
in your hands."

" O shame an' sorrow, asthora-ma-chree, why
should you say sech a thing as that? — See,
yourself. Is'nt that a fair an' honest pack o'
cards? 'Tisn't to draw the knave o' clubs agin
you done, is it?*'

'* I '11 be hanged if I haven't though" said
Duke, troubled and fretted in spite of himsel
at the Singular coincidence — -which he perhaps

VOL. I. D

50 CARD DRAWING.

too readily believed to be uncontrived on the
part of the old woman.

" You '11 be hanged if you have, you ought
to say/* she replied, assuming a solemn ear-
nestness of tone and look.

" I will be hanged then," said the sailor —
"forthere is thecard."

''Whoever you are," the Card-dra wer replied,
after shaking her head and looking steadfastly
at him for a few moments, "you are a free-
handed, spirited boy, an' my heart within me
is sorry for you. If you left your ship for fear
of a sailor's death, or a sailor's grave, you may
return to her again, for your doom is not to
be upon the waters. There's a threatnen of
a voylent deed, and a voylent an' a shameful
death in the card you drew. If you have a
spite agin any body, or if it be a thing any
body would have the likes agin you, I teil you,
an warn you to beware an look about you.
Feel your way before you, for a black doom
is waiten for you. Onee more I advise you.

CARD DRAWING. 51

look well to yourself, an' dale quietly wit all
people. Good mornen to you, lad, and hea-
ven send you better look then you're promised
— an' a rough road, porcupine saddle, an' a
high-trotten horse to all your innimies." And
so saying, the old woman concealed the cards
in some part of her dress, and hurried through
the haggard, muttering, as soon as she passed
out of hearing, *' There why ! May be I
did 'nt make you pay for your peepen, for once.
He has somethen to think of now to keep his
mind from härm, any way."

Although we have before said that Duke
Dorgan was by no means feeble-minded, or
idly credulous, it would be claiming for him,
perhaps, a vigour of intellect which is but
little characteristic of the members of his class
of Society, in any country in tha world, if we
asserted, that he was incapable of being at all
influenced by circumstances so singular and
impressive as those which he had just under-
gone. The coincidence in the thrice selected

52 CARD DRAWING.

Card (in wliich, probably, tlie more penetrat-
ing reader can discover nothing farther than
the roguish dexterity of a cunning old bei-
dam) if it did not appear to him as a really
supernatural occurrence, at least made him
think very deeply on the subject, and min-
gled itself with her explanation and prophecy,
to which it imparted a strangely corroborative
weight. We might appeal to the experience
of many of our most philosophical and apa-
thetic readers, to say, whether they have not
often found trains of thought, or feeling which
they at first assumed in indifFerence or in jest,
grow and fasten upon their attention, in a
degree which was entirely the reverse of trifling
or agreeable. In like manner fared our hero ;
the longer he dwelt on the Card-drawer and
her prophecy, the more ill at ease he grew —
until at length he wished, from the bottom of
his heart, that he had never exchanged a word
with her. He was astonished at the feverish
State of mind which very speedily grew upon

CAtlD DRAWING. 53

him — " I don 't believe a word of it," he said,
remonstrating with himself — "and as to the
old woman herseif— of course she is an im-
postor; I should be worse than an idiot, to bö
at all influenced by any thing she could teil
me — nor am I — but yet to draw that long-
nosed knave o' clubs three times ! — No matter !
time will teil."

He sprang lightly over the stile, and,
bündle in band, speedily lost recollection of
his morning adventure in the varieties of thö
scenes through which he passed, on his route
towards his native village — and the home of
his love. The conntry around him was level,
boggy, and uncultivated, with but scanty ex-
ceptions ; and the occasional companions of
his journey were the blue-stockinged fish-
jolters, from the neighbouring villages of
Beltard and Quem (famous for the delicious
turbot, which philanthropically incarcerate
themselves in the fishing-nets, for the benefit
of the gourmands of Cläre and Limerick),

54 CARD DRAWIJJG.

who beat on their rough-coated asses, as they
staggered under the weight of their well fur-
nished cleaves or panniers, and diversified the
monotony of the sweet and wholesome sea air,
with whatTrinculo would call a" raost ancient
and fish-like smell." Now and then, too, a
pig-jobber, distinguished by his weather-proof
air> his ponderous frieze great coat, with
Standing collar, forming a streng wall of de-
fence up to the very eyes — his wide waste of
cape, and his one spur fastened upon the well-
greased brogue, vouchsafed a **'Save you
kindly," as he trotted by ; and a carman, seated
side-wise on the back of a horse, (whose bony
ribs bespoke him innocent of the luxury of
oats) — with his feet on the shaft, a cart-whip
tied sashwise about his person from Shoulder
to hip, a dingy straw-hat flung " on three hairs"
of his head, heavy woollen waistcoat, bundle-
cloth shirt thrown open at the neck, and light
streamers of gray riband fluttering rakishly
at the knees of his corduroy small clothes, —

CARD DRAWING. 55'

hospitably invited him to take a seat on the
corner of his car, loaded as it was with full-
bounds of butter, or bags of oats for the inland
markets.

Duke was tempted to loiter so much on his
way, that the sun was past its meridian height
for some time before he entered the village of
Carrigaholt, within little more than a mile of
which Mr. Mc Loughlen, the father of his be-
loved Penny, resided. He had previously
come to the determination of allowing himself
one evening to recruit his spirits and recover
his good looks, before he should present him-
self at the farm-house. Though he had but
very little vanity himself, and had a reasonable
share of confidence in the aflfections of his love,
he had lived long enough among mankind,
to know, that even our best and nearest friends
are seldom so purely disinterested as not to
acknowledge an involuntary and tacit subjec-
tion to the influenae of appearances. Penny,
he conjectured (and he did not think the

56 CARD DRAWING*

worse of her for the suspicion) would not like
him the less in his smart nevv jacket and
trowsers, with a light India silk handkerchief
about his neck, and the wearying efFects
of long travel flung from him by a night's
repose. The old gentleman, he was certain,
would be much better pleased to see him in a
respectable trim, and he was conscious more-
over, though he did not make this one of his
ostensible motives, that he would not be the less
satisfied with himself for appearing^jozw^ device,
The village, as he entered it,appeared almost
deserted — the masters of the families not be-
ing yet returned from their daily toil on the
river which flowed near them. The doors of
the houses were, for the most part, shut fast
and hasped, which circumstance, together with
the stillness of the streets, in which he only
heard the voices of some ragged children at
play among the turf kishes, and the occasional
inhospitable growling of some hairy cur (who
was afraid to venture on a bark of open de-

CARD DRAWING. 67

fiance or hostility in the absence of its humaa
protectors), gave something of a holiday air
to the scene. Betvveen the occasional breaks
in the row of houses on one side, the broad
and sheeted river presented itself to his eyes,
its suiface agreeably diversified by the dark
and red-sailed fishing-boats, turf-boats, and
large merchant vessels which floated on itt
bosom, and the shadow of a passing cloud on
its green and sunny waters.

As he proceeded through the village in
search of the house which Kinchela had indi-
cated as a rendezvous, he observed the sign-
boards of two rival public-houses, swinging at
either corner of the street, at a spot where it
was intersected by two cross roads, and which
were distinguished by those whimsical devices
and mottoes, used generally in Ireland for the
purpose of exciting mirth in the hearts of
the passengers — those adepts in the human
character, the innkeepers, being made aware
by long experience, that next to passionate
D 2

'58 CARD DRAWING.

grief, nothing inclines a man more strongly to
look for good liquor and good Company, than
a train of good humour once set fire to within
his heart. One of those signs presented the
appearance of a pewter drinking vessel im-
prisoned within the grating of a strong gaol,
under which the following lines were written
in a bold dashing hand : —

" Ye jovial fellows that pass along,
Behold me here, in prison strong,
For FOUR PENCE I now here do lie,
Release me quickly, or I shall die."

On the rival sign-board, the Muse of paint-
ing had delineated the effigy of a bee-hive,
which had likewise its appropriate jingle con-
tributed by her sister deity :—

** Within this hive

We're all alive ;
Good liquor makes us funny —

If you are dry

As you pass by,
Step in and taste our honey."

With the latter invitation our hero com-
jälied, leaving the Liberation of the captive on

CARD DRAWING. 59

the other side to the next village Howard
who might cast a humane eye in that direc-
tion, moved less, however, by the prospect of
the promised honey within, than the expecta-
tion of meeting here his old acquaintance be-
forenamed.

He found the house unoccupied by any but
the pnblican or landlord, who was seated, in ä
hay-bottomed chair, by the whitening embers
of a turf fire, dandling one foot softly in the
air, and luxuriating in the delights of a well-
filled pipe, which he interrupted only at inter-
vals, for the purposeof giving some directions
to a slatternly girl, who was seated on her
heels at one end of the room, scouring the
pewter glories of the dresser, with a wisp of
hay and wet sand. He received Dorgan with
the respect and attention which are peculiarly
the right of all naval and military sojourners
atplaces of public entertainment, ushered him
into the boarded parlour, and answered readily
all the questions which he put respecting the

60 CARD DRAWING.

present condition of McLoughlen, whether he
still lived with his daughter, in the same lonely
house which they occupied a great many years
before, and many other inquiries more inter-
esting to him, in all probability, than they
would be to the reader.

The landlord was at length summoned to
attend a customer at the bar, and Duke was
left to ** discuss" (as the phrase is) his whiskey-
and-water (or to give it the provincial term,
bis whiskey-punch) alone. Although Irishmen
have long lain under the imputation of a fond-
ness more intense than is consistent with the
character of a well-deserver, for the excite-
ment of strong liquor, I believe the afFection
which subsists, is rather that which we enter-
tain for a pleasant acquaintance, whöm we are
happy to meet in mixed Company, than that
which we feel towards a friend with whom we
can consume whole hours in solitary commu-
nion (if this expression may escape uncen-
sured by English judgments). Dorgan in

CARD DRAWING. 61

particular, who was unprofessionally and un-
nationally abstemious, feit little pleasure in
continuing, while he waited the arrival of his
friend, to sip the diluted fire which stood
before him. He looked around the room for
something to amuse his thoughts, which were
flowing too rapidly upon him, to suffer that
be should remain still, until Pryce made good
his appointment ; and after turning over a
numberofold books of farming, tattered vo-
lumes of law, and rudimental works, a scrap-
book feil into his hands, in which he foun'd
the following verses written (in all probability
by way of practice in penmanship). Although
the sentiment was expressed in langnage, per-
haps, a little too fine for his sympathy, the
analogy which it bore to what might have been
his own fate, interested him sufficiently to
make him read the stanzas through.

P3 CARD DRAWING.

THE JOY OF HONOUR.

I.

The tears from these old eyelids crept,

When Dermod left bis mother-land —
And I was one of those who wept

Upon bis neck, and press'd bis band.
He did not grieve to leave us tben,
He bop'd to see bis bome again —
Witb bonours twin'd in bis brigbt bair,
He could not bope to gatber tbere.

IL

Year after year roUed fleetly on —

Lost in tbe grave of buried time —
And Dermod's uame and praise bad won

Tbeir way into bis parent-clime ;
But all bis youtbful baunts were cbanged,
Tbe wild wood perisbed wbere be ranged—
And all bis friends died one by one,
Till tbe last of Dermod's name was gone.

m.

I sat, one eve, in Curra's glade,

And saw an pld man tottering down,
Wbere tbe first veil of evening's sbade

Had given tbe beatb a deeper brown ;
His cbeek was pale — bis long bair now
Fell, in wbite flakes, o'er bis aged brow —
But tbe same young soul was in bis eye,
And I knew tbe friend of my infancy.

CARD DRAWING. 63*

IV.

He gazed upon the silent wood —

He passed bis band across bis brow —

Tbe busb of utter solitude

Slept on eacb stirless beecben bougb —

*' Tbat lake witb flowering islets strewed,

Tbat skirts tbe lawn and breaks yon wood —

I knew in youtb a Valley green,

Tbe seat of many a merry scene.

V.

" Tbe youtbs tbat graced tbe village dance,
Beneatb tbe turf tbey trod are sleeping —

Tbe maidens, in wbose gentle glance

Tbeir spirits lived, are o'er tbem weeping — •

Sorrow and bligbt, and age bave come —

Wbere mirtb once reigned — and youtb— and bloom-

And tbe soft cbarms of Nature's prime

Are blasted witb tbe breatb of Time.

VI.

** And batb tbe joy tbat bonour gives,

No power o'er memories like tbis ?
Ab ! witless is tbe man wbo lives

To soar at fame and spurn at bliss !
That batb been mine — this migbt bave been,
Had I but beld tbe bumble meau —
And pasaed upon my parent soil,
A life of peace and quiet tail.

64 CARD DRAWING.

VII.

** And is it thus with all who gaiu

The pbantom-glory of a name ?
That ere it grace their brows, the pain

Of their long search hath quench'd the flam«
That young ambition lit — and those
Whose praise they sought, are at repose —
And they stand in a world unknown —
Admired — revered — unloved — alone '

VIII.

" I want my early playmates back,

My friends long-Iost — but ne'er forgot —

Are these old man who haunt my track,

My school-day friends ? — I know them not ?

Alas ! I grieve and call in vain,

Their youth will never come again —

But it is sad my heart should feel

Its first affections youthful still."

" I declare, then," said Dorgan in soliloquy,
as he mingled another " tumbler o' punch'*
(the first having insensibly disappeared, while
he was poring studiously over the above com-
position), and looked musingly in the glass,
only a Utile puzzled — ** I declare, now, I can
understand what the fellow means very well,

CARD DRAWING. 65

although he has put it into that crinkuni-
crankum, fine-spoken, gingerbread language;
and I feh just the same thing myself since I
came. This very landlord o' this public-
house I knew at school — a wild, scatter-
brained young fellow, that would box a round,
or climb at a magpie's nest with any boy in the
parish, and to see him now enter the room,
knocking the ashes ofFhis pipe with the tip of
his little finger, hoping your honour is con-
venient, and talking of the duty on licenses
and the distillery laws, as if he had never done
any. thing since he was born hnt jug whiskey-
punch, and score double! It makes a man
feel as if he were thinking of growing old,
one time or another, himself. Going to ' lie be-
neath the turf I trod/ as this poet here says. —
No matter!" he continued, indulging in amore
liberal draught than he had yet ventured on,
*' this is the way of the world — Sic transit
gloria mundi; here to-day and gone o' Sun-
day.— Hush ! Is not that Kinchela?"

(5(5 CARD DRAWING.

He interrupted himself, on hearing a voice
in the kitchen outside. The Speaker ap-
proached the door of the room where he sat,
and entering without ceremony, shewed him
that his conjecture was perfectly correct.

*' I heg pardon, Mr. Dorgan," he said, mak-
ing, what he considered a very courteous bow
— " Vm afeer'd I kep you waiten, but I was
obleeged to be at the Head all the mornen, ga-
theren thebarnocks^ — an I could'ntwell affbrd
to lose more than half a day to our meeten tbis
turn."

Dorgan accepted his apology, and invited
him to a corner of the board, and a share of
the good things with which it was decorated.
Pryce readily seated himself, but refused to
drink, and when our hero pressed him hard,
added vehemence to the negative.

" O come," said Duke, angrily, *' I will say
that you do not yet look on me as a friend if
you refuse to join me in a glass. There's no
• A kind of shell-fish.

CARD DRAWING. 67

Salt in the liquor — and you may be my foe to-
morrow, if you like/*

" Pho ! pho ! sooner than you*d be sayen
any thing o' that kind, Duke," the other said,
with some confusion of manner, " Fll drink
the ocean dry wit you." And he filled a glasa
without further preamble.

After the usual commendations on the qua-
lity of the materials which went to the compo-
sition of their populär beverage, the young
men talked freely of the changes which had
taken place in the afFairs of the neighbour-
hood, dwelling on the intermediate histories
of all whose fortunes were of any interest to
the sailor from their association with bis early
life, comparing their actual fates with what
might have been anticipated from bis know-
ledge of their character in boyhood — how one
was married— another hanged — one killed at a
hurling match — another transported for sheep-
stealing — wondering at every circumstance in
turn, and at length chopping round (to use the

6b CARD DRAWING.

professional phrase of one of the parties), upon
tbe old and favourite theme of Mc Loughlen
and bis daughter.

On this subject, Dorgan, a little stimulated
by the awakened recollection of tbe sligbts
cast upon bim by the old farmer — and not a
little, perbaps, by the influence of the Irish
whiskey to which he bad become almost a
stranger during bis exile, allowed himself a
liberty of speech, which he bad afterward deep
cause to regret. Pryce, after coinciding in
tbe justice of bis resentment, and even adding
some observations calculated rather to aggra-
vate than assuage it, suddenly changed bis tone,
and Said in a gentle voice : —

'* But althougb he did injure you surely,
Duke, an' that greatly, Fd like I could prevail
on you to forgive an' forget. — Bear an' forbear
as we*re commanded. He's an old man, an'
you're a young one, an' it wont be ong^until
the grave will draw a line between ye, that you
may wish to pass, to make friends again, an'

CARD DRAWING. 69

won't be able. So don't harbour any bad de-
signs again poor Mc Loughlen, I beg o' you."

" Oh, ril make the purse-proud old rogue

know at any rate, tbai " he interrupted

himself, on perceiving a dark shadow throwii
on the table at which he was seated. On look-
ing up, he perceived an elderly gentleman,
dressed in black, with whip and spurs, and
silver buckles at his knees, Standing between
him and the window. He addressed Dorgan
with a manner of solemn and authoritative,
althüugh very mild and dignified reproof.

*' I have been listening to you/' said he,
** for the last few minutes — "

*' Have you?" interrupted Duke, " then you
have made more free than welcome, I can teil

you."

" Do not condemn me as an eaves-dropper,"
said the gentleman, calmly, " until you are
certain that I deserve the name. I did not
intend to overhear you — but if I had used so
unwarrantable a means to serve you, young

70 CARD DRAWING.

man, you should respect your Maker, more
than to insult his minister.

" I really ask your pardon/' said Dorgan,
rising — " I was not aware of your profession,
father, er I would not have used these words."

" There was a fault on both sides," said the
clergyman — *' however, before I go (as I only
stept in here, in the expectation of meeting a
friend), I will venture to pursue the subject a
little farther. I heard you speak in terms of
strong resentment of one of my worthiest pa-
rishioners. There is not a man of his means
and Station in the country, who has done more
good to the poor, and to all who needed his
Service, than that very man. He is a fond fa-
ther— a religious observer of God's law-^and
a friend to all — even to you — (do not start,
for I know you, sir), who were no friend of his.
I have often heard him mention,with deep re-
gret, the hard language he used towards you
in his younger and more passionate days — and
yet this is the man whom you denounce by an

CARD DRAWING. 71

epithet, which it does not become me to repeat,
even for the purpose of reprehending it. I
would recommend to you for your own sake,
and that of all in whom you have an interest,
to acquire the virtue of subduing those violent
resentments. Remember that * the patient is
better than the strong man ; and he that ruleth
his mind than the overthrower of eitles/ "

" Well," Said Dorgan, ** you will not think
the worse of me, for speaking my mind freely
at all events."

" Ay, young man, there would be a merit
in that frankness if it implied a purpose of
amendment,as well as a consciousness of error.
But it is the misfortune of your countrymen
and mine, to imagine that open-heartedness is
a virtue, even when it only consists in making
a boast of guilty propensities, which other men
deem it prudent to conceal. I mentioned to
you the merits of him, against whom you have
been railing, for the purpose of shewing what
a darkener of the mind and senses this private

72 CARD DRAWING.

resentment is— and how it can so cliange the
eyes and heart, as to make one man see evil,
where all others can discern nought but good.
It is the indulgence of this dreadful and selfish
propensity, that has made the gibbets of cur
country groan under the burthen of so many
hundreds of her young, and high-spirited chil-
dren. I warn you,to beware ofharbouring re-
sentment against your brother." And saying
this^ the clergyman left the room, followed by
Kinchela, who pleaded some business with the
publican.

Doraan remained for some time after in an
attitude of stupid abstraction and amazement,
not altogether occasioned so much by the
reproof which he had undergone, as by the
stränge coincidence between the clergyman's
last words and the warning given by the Cai d-
drawer on that very morning. *'What!" he
exclaimed at length, striking the table forcibly
with his clenched fist, and speaking with much
vehemence, " Are all the people mad, that

CARD DRAWING. 73

they warn me at every step I take to beware
of murder and the gallows? Do I meditate
bloodshed ? Let me take my own heart to task.
— Is it that of a midnight cut-throat? It
surely is not. I have never spilled one red drop
of living blood in my life, but that for which I
ventured my own in the Service of my country.
I would not set my foot on that fly that is
cravvling there, if it were to purchase the three
kingdoms. What then do the people mean?
Is my forehead stampt, like Cain's, with the
mark of blood? Is murderer in my face? If.
Nature has written the word there, she lied
foully, for the heart of the young lamb is not
more free from the thoughtor thirst of violence
than mine."

A little relieved by the fervour with which
he thus unburthened his spirits, Dorgan pre-
pared for his night's rest in the inn, and was
shewn by the landlord into a double-bedded
room, after bidding good-night to Kinchela,
who was to return to Loup Head early in the

VOL. I. E

74 CARD DRAWING.

morning. Notwithstanding all the efForts
which his companion made to banish from his
memory the recollection of the double warning
hehad received in thecourseof the day, thecir-
cumstance still hung upon his mind, and trou-
bled his slumbers. The forms of a methodical
execution — the blanketted finisher of the law
— the fatal cart — the tree — chains — night-cap
— and all the other awful et cetera of a death
untimely and ignominious, floated with a hor-
rible and oppressive influence upon his brain ;
and he awoke just in time to save his neck
from the noose which was all but fastened
on it.

It was dark midnight ; and he feit his head
almost riven with a cruel ache, the result in all
probability of his unaccustomed libations,
together with the fatigue he had undergone
the preceding day and night. Wishing to
bind it round with a silk handkerchief, he
stretched his band out to the chair on which
he had laid his clothes, but to his great sur-

CARD DRAWING. 75

prise found that they had been removed. He
rose and groped about the room for some time
in the dark, but with no better success : he
was, in fine, obliged to return to his bed and
sleep ofF the illness as well as he could until
morning.

Whatever his astonishment might have been
at missing his clothes during the night, it cer-
tainly did not exceed that which he feit on
opening his eyes next day and perceiving
them exactly in the place where he had laid
them the evening before. The royal father of
Badroulboudourneverrubbed his eyes sooften
or in such astonishment, at the disappearance
of the enchanted palace of his son-in-law.
Kinchela had already departed ; and our hero,
after discharging the duty of morning prayer
with somewhat more than his usual fervency,
and consuming a reasonable portion of the pub-
lican's groceries, paid his bill like a man of
honour, and departed.

The calmness of the morning, the fresh look

76 CARD DRAWING.

of tbe green fields, the sweetness of the open
air, and the sigbt of the hüls and crags vvhere
the days of his childhood had passed so
merrily — contributed to wean his mind from
the gloomy reflections to which the occur-
rences of the preceding day had given rise.
Every step that brought bim nearer to the
dwelling of his love, made his heart bound
with a freer and happier movement within his
bosom, until at length the exquisite poignancy
of expectation became almost too eager and
tumultuous for unmixed pleasure. He passed
the old school-house in the glen, the chapel.
the inch which was used for a play-ground,
and at length, on arriving at the summit of a
gentle eminence, beheld the farm-house (a neat
little band-box, in which his love lay treasured
like one of her own new bonnets) clustered in
among a grove of Scotch firs, and presenting
its cheerful white-washed front to the broad
face of the Shannon, from which it was only
separated by a green and sloping meadow.

CARD DRAWING. 77

It was rather early when Dorgan left the
inn where he passed the night, so that he was
a little surprised to see a considerable number
of persons collected around the door. They
passed rapidly in and out of the house, and a
few hastened across the fields in the direction
of the village, while others passed them after a
hasty greeting, and seeming to convey the
tidings of some important event. On a
sudden, while Dorgan continued looking to-
wards the open door, a woman rushed from it,
hurried through the crovvd, tore her cap from
her head, and, while her long hair feil over hei
Shoulders, began to clap her hands, and utter
the most heart-piercing screams. A terriblö
Sensation lodged itself upon the heart of
young Dorgan as he heard this fatal song,
which his memory enabled him to recognize
as the death-wail of his country. He was
about to spring from the low hedge on which
he sat, and hasten to the house, when he was
stopped by a woman who had been sitting on

78 CARD DRAWING.

the bank-side in the sunshine, arranging a
small pack of rabbit-skins and goose-quills
which she carried.

"Tee you! tee you!^ sailor!" she ex-
claimed, "Tee you! Don't go a-near the
house ! Are you light?t They 're on the
watch for you. Oh ! you foolish cratur, why
did'nt you do me bidden. I'd rather the cards
to be out itself, this once, than to have such a
clane, likely boy as what you are coom to any
härm on the head of it."

"You infernal hag!" said Duke, turning
fiercely upon her, " are you mad ? Let go my
dress ! You are all mad together. What
watch? — Who? — What do you mean?"

"You do well to be Ignorant of it, to be
sure. There was murder done in that house
last night, and — '^

" Hold !" said Dorgan, turning pale as
death, and staggering forward, until he sup-
ported himself by grasping the extended arm

* To you ! Beware ! f Mad.

CARD DRAWING. 79

of the Card-drawer. The woman paused and
looked amazedly on him, while his head
drooped upon his breast; a dreadful sickness
laboured at his heart, and his biain feit as
though it reeled within his head. At length,
raising his eyes heavily to heaven, while his
words feil from him with so faint an eraphasis
that the utterance of each single syllable
seemed to require all the exertion his nerves
could muster, he said slowly and feebly,
" Great Heaven! if novv, after my long ab-
sence from my native land, after all the dangers
through which the Almighty has preserved
me, both by storm and battle, — if now, the
first day of my Coming home, the first day I
was to meet my old friends, my first love, in
health and happiness — if I am doomed to
see her, after all our love, and our hopes, and
our long parting, a bleeding corpse before me,
I will strive to submit and bear the judgment;
but do not blame me if my heart breaks under
it — and if Teil me," he continued, press-

80 CARD DRAWING.

ing the Card-drawer's arm, and panting with
apprehension, while he dared not look in her
face, " Who was murdered ?"

" O thin, dear knows, Sir, ould Mc Loughlen
was — an' I'd think that enough, an' not to go
farther."

Again Dorgan paused, while his lirabs
shook with apprehension — ** And — and — his
daughter?"

"Oh, allilu! Penny is it?— Oh, indeed I
wisht himself was as well as her, an' 'twould
save her a sighth o' grief."

Dorgan covered his eyes with his hands,
and leaned for some time, silent and raotion-
less, with his back against the bank. At
length, rising silently, with as much firmness
as he could command, he began to move to-
wards the house in silence,

" Don't you hear me, what I'm teilen you,
child?" Said the Card-drawer.

" What do you say — "

*' They 're all on the look out for the mur-

CARD DRAWING. 81

derers, and examinen 'em all right an' left —
gentle an' simple. Remember the knave o'
Clubs."

" Pooh — pooh 1" Dorgan exclaimed, shaking
bis arm from her grasp, and hurrying toward
the house.

" Pooh, is it?" said the indignant forestaller

of the Destinies — "Shasthone pooh! Gondou-

tha wisha pooÄ/ That's my thanks. May be

'twould be a new story wit you before you'd

leave that roof, then; an' I'd be sorry it

ghould, for all. Well then, I declare, now,"

she added, crossing her hands in more com-

posed soliloquy — " one ought 'nt to be funrien

on things o' that natur, at all — for see how

what I did, be way of a punishment, to frighten

him, is comen very near the truth after all ! —

I declare, its a droU thing to think of— Easy !

Is 'nt that the priest I see comen over the

road? O murther alive! I'U be kilt if he sees

me, after he warnen me out o' the parish last

Advent." She huddled her pack hastily up,

E 2

82 CARD DRAWING.

and ran along under cover of the hedge, in a
different direction from thatby which bis reve-
rence, the same gentleman, under whose cen-
sure Dorgan had lain at the inn the night
before, was approaching the farm.

A dreary scene awaited our young hero in
the interior of the house. He passed in with-
out attracting any notice from the crowds of
persons who were too busy, in hearing or
telling the circumstances of the fearful occur-
rence which had taken place, to suffer their
attention to be divided by the appearance of a
stranger. In the centreof the neatly furnished
kitchen, was a long deal table, on which was
laid the corpse, with the clothes in which he
had been found — and all the awful appearances
of the violent fate which he had undergone. —
The gray hairs, matted and stiff — and the
wrinkled features distorted with the still sur-
viving expression of horror, and frightfully
dabbled in blood, remained still untouched,
unchanged — an indication that the coroner's

CARD DRAWING. 83

inquiry was not yet concluded. It was, in
fact, at this moment, proceeding in an interior
room. In the capacious chimney corner
were seated a number of old woraen, who de-
clared, as they socially passed the single pipe
from one to another, that the old man would
make a good corpse, when the blood was
washed ofF and the hair combed sleek upon the
brow. An old man, in another corner, was
entertaining a number of wondering auditors,
with an account of a murder far more hor-
rible than the present, which had occurred
within his own memory ; and farther on, were
seated a circle of females, preparing, by low
modulations of the death-cry, to shine in the
rivalry of the evening wail. Two or three of
the sincere friends of the dead man, standing
near his body, perused in heavy silence, and
with grief-struck features, that face which
even an enemy could not contemplate, dis-
figured and dragged as it was in the parting
agony, without an emotion of pity and forgive-

84

CARD DRAWING.

ness — if not remorse. One of these men was
Duke Dorgan.

He learned, from the conversation of those
who stood around him, that a party had en-
tered the house on the previous evening, in
pursuance, as it was said, of a threat which had
been conveyed to poor Mc Loughlen a short
time before, warning him not to bid for a cer-
tain farm in the neigbourhood, the former
tenant of which had been ejected fornon-pay-
ment of rent. — Mc Loughlen had disregarded
this menace, and in some measure brought
on himself the consequences which had been
laid before him. His daughter, and a little girl,
bis niece, were the only persons in the house
at the time — and the latter alone, an intelligent
child, about seven or eight years of age, was en-
abled to see the whole procedure, from a loft on
which she usually slept. Dorgan entered the
room where the Coroner's inquest was held,
just as that gentleman was beginning to take
down the deposition of the infant witness.

CARD DRAWING. 85

"Well, mylittle darling," said the Coroner,
"teil your story novv, like a good girl. Don't
be afraid of tliese gentlemen ; we are all your
friends, and we '11 take care that nobody shall
do you any härm."

" I will, Ser,'' said the little girl — " this was
the way of it. Uncle was sitten there abroad
a-near the kitchen fire, on the sugan chair, an'
Penny was readen a chapter out o' the Bible
to him, an' Tom Dooly, our boy, was out
looken at the bounds, to see would any o' the
Keys's cows be trespassen, an' meself waig
just out o' my first sleep above upon the loft,
over right the fire-place, whin I heard a
tundheren rap coom to the back doore."

" Very well, my girl, very good child,"
the Coroner said, while he continued mak-
ing his memoranda — " Well ? you heard a
knock ?"

*' I did, Ser. Penny dropt the book in a
fright, an coom an' thrun her arms about
uncle's neck. ' O murther, father ! what's that

86 CARD DRAWING.

I wonder?' says Penny — 'It's the Boys,* 1
fear/ says he, ' Heaven preserve my child !'
says he. So he put Penny into the corner,
an* then the party broke the doore (1 heerd it
crashen)an'cooniin, an' began croosterr\ Uncle
with stones, while he kep 'em ofF wit the chair.
At last, they puU't the chair from him, an' bid
him go on his knees to be shot. ' O boys,'
says he, * don't take my life, au' I'U give up
Ihe farm.' ' It's toolate now,' says one of em
— ' why did'nt you take the warnen whin it
was given you?' With that he was going to
strike him with a piece of a syeX he had in his
band, whin Penny ran screechen out o' the
corner, an tuk him by the coat to pull him
away from üncIe, but he threw her back again'
the wall, an' then he began cutten Uncle on
the head with the sye, tili he feil back on the
floore, groanen. * You done enough now,'
says one of the party that was with him, * he

• The familiär name for Insurgents.
t Peking at him, $ Scythe,

CARD DRAWING. 87

never'li see day-light agen— he has'nt a kick
in him/ * I owed that much to him a long
while then/ says the man, as they were goen
out the doore. Uncle was stretched a'most
the first blow he gave him, an' very justly, for
it was a great stroke surely."

Here, the girl began to cry and tremble, as
if labouring under great anxiety. ** Fil be
kilt now, entirely," she said, " for there's one
o' the men that murther'd Uncle lissnen
to me."

A general exclamation of astonishment and
alarm broke from the circle at this naive de-
claration. The doors were closed by the Co-
roner's desire, and the girl was asked to pöint
out the person whom she recognized.

" Pd be afeerd he*d kill me," she said,
weeping.

" Do not fear it/' said the Coroner, taking
her into his lap, and patting her head— " we
are too strong, and too many for him. Where
is he, pet?''

88 CARD DRAWING.

'* There he is, standen a-nigli the table, in
the sailor's clothes."

She pointed to Dorgan, who feit, while her
small finger was tremblingly directed towards
him, as if he were surrounded by the phantoms
of a hideous dream. He could scarcely believe
that the fate with which he had been so singu-
larly threatened, was in reality to be fulfilled ;
and he could do nothing more than gape and
Stare around him, until the rough hands of two
of the men present, grasping his collar, and
dragging him before the Coroner's chair, con-
vinced him that the scene and the event were
directly the reverse of ideal.

'* This is a serious charge that is brought
against you, young. man," said the Coroner —
" What is your name V*

" Dorgan," was the reply ; " I have served
in his Majesty's navy, and have only arrived
in Ireland, the day before yesterday.'*

A murmuring of recognition passed among
the people who crowded the room, and one of

CARD DRAWING. 89

them whispered to the Coroner, who nodded,
as if in token of assent.

" You knew the deceased?" he said, again
addressing Dorgan.

'* I did, many years since."
'* You owed him a spite, I believe V
" I owe no man a spite. That is a coward's
passion. He refused me the ha^d of his
daughter, when I was very young, ancl I con-
fess my resentment against him was strong —
but I came home now with an altered spirit,
anxious to see and to be reconciled to him."

"Those were not, justice compels me to de-
clare," said a voice behind Dorgan, " the sen-
timents which I heard you express towards
him yesterday evening. In the parlour of the
Bee-hive, I heard this very young sailor speak
in terms of the vilest reproach against my poor
murdered friend, Mc Loughlen."

Dorgan looked over his Shoulder, and be-
held the clergyman with whom he had been
speaking ; ** I cannot, nor am I anxious to deny

90 CARD DRAWING.

that 1 did use such expressions," said he, a
little confiised, in spite of his consciousness
of right, at the corroborative force which
this unfortunate circumstance was likely to
give to the mistaken testiraony of the child —
"but I spoke then under unusual Irritation.
I had been indulging a little too freely in
the strong liquor that was placed before me,
and might have said, perhaps, more than I
ought."

** Ay, and done more than you ought, sir,
perhaps from the same cause. Doctor Ma-
hony's evidence is important, however," the
Coroner continued, writing.

*' It would be," said Dorgan, with a sudden
confidence brightening in his manner, " bat
that I have one witness who will decide the
question of my innocence at once. There
Stands the landlord of the inn ; he knows that
I passed the night under his roof."

'* I declare, gentleman sailor," said the land-
lord, afFecting the euphony of the greater

CARD DRAWING. 91

number of his class — " Pd prefer you did'nt
appale to my evijunce — I don't know who may
be the perpetraathur of this horrid fact — but if
I must give my judgment in the case, I must
say that as I slep in a room, the commerade o'
that you hired, I heard you rise in the obscu-
rity o' the night an' walk most surprising about
the room, an' my wife testified to me that she
had audience o' the doore outside openen and
shutten a while before. It was a contraary
thing for you to direct your application to me,
for I profess without maning to be litigious or
factious, I have nothen commendable to vouch-
safe in your favour." And so saying, with the
air of a Dogberry, the eloquent host retired
from the gaze of the crowd into his former
place, satisfied that he had impressed the Com-
pany with the high^st respect for the perspi-
cuity and elegance of phraseology which he
displayed.

There was no other witness to his alibi, who
might not have been imposed upon by the

92 ^ CARD DRAWING.

same appearances, and Dorgan feit as if a net
were weaving around him, from which he should
in vain seek to disentangle himself.

" All those circumstances become more im-
portant as they corroborate each other," said
the Coroner. '* I am afraid, young sir, that it
will task your ingenuity hard to bear you
safely through them all."

Dorgan paused for a moment, and pressed
his band on bis brow in deep agitation. At
last, starting from his reverie with a sudden
and passionate vehemence — *' Let Miss Mc
Loughlen be called/' he exclaimed — "She saw
the murderer, she is your first witness. Let
her come quickly, or my life will be drivelled
away by fools and children."

'* You would do well, sir," said the Coroner,
after requesting the clergyman to go for the
unhappy girl, ** to measure your language by
the circumstances in which you are placed.
The ground on which you stand does not ap-
pear to be the firmest possible."

CARD DRAWING. 93

" Peace, and be silent!" cried Dorgan,
fiercely and loudly. " The ground on which
I stand, is the ground of my own innocence,
and that I will maintain after my own fasbion."
" I bope you will prove it tenable," said the
Coroner.

*' If it be undermined by others, in malice,
or in wanton negligence/'said our hero, "may
the ruin fall on the heads of the contrivers !"
" Amen !" was the reply.
The throng at the door-way here separated,
and Dorgan's attention was rivetted by an ob-
ject of new and engrossing interest. The
priest entered, supporting on his arm the
slight and drooping figure of a young woman
of an excelling beauty both of face and person,
although the effect of the terrible shock which
she had imdergone, considerably abated the
fresh and healthy bloom that was the legitim ate
property of the former. She was dressed in a
piain dark cotton gown, with a blue silk riband
tied simply around her well-formed head, while

94 CARD DRAWING.

her light and polished curls shaded her pale
features, and her deep blue eyes were fixed on
the ground with a strong effort at the calmness
ofresignation,astheclergymanwhisperedsome
words of encouragement and comfort in her
ear. A dead silence took place as soon as she
made her appearance, which continued until
she had been conducted to a chair near the
centre of the room.

Dorgan, after pausing for some time, in
Order to master all his strength of mind, walked
towards his love, and taking her hand, while
she seemed scarcely conscious of the action,
in his, Said gently, " It is a sad meeting that
has been reserved for us, Pennie ; but do you
not know me ?"

The poor girl had not from the time of the
murder up to the present moraent, indulged in
any ofthose salutary bursts of grief, in which
the loaded heart finds safety from breaking
when it is oppressed with sorrow too mighty
for its narrow limits to contain. The more

CARD DRAWING. 96:

violent, tlierefore, was the rush of passion,
when a Channel was at length afForded, by
which the long pent-up and accumulating
agony was enabled to discharge itself. When
she recognized her lover, uttering a shrill and
piercing shriek, which darted like an electric
shock through the nerves of the hearers, she
flung herseif upon bis neck, and hung in a con-
vulsion of mingled tears and sobs around bim.
Dorgan supported and endeavoured to sooth her,
while his own tears flovved in abundance, and
the eyes of many of the Company shewed that
their hearts were not proof against the sudden-
ness of the appeal made to them.

" Oh, Dorgan, my own true friend, are yoii
come indeed ?" she exclaimed, gazing in his
face, as if to be assured that she was not
giving to a stranger the caresses that were his
right — *' Oh, Dorgan, I hoped that I should
have the happiness to see you both friends once
more — for he often and often spoke of you,
and longed foryour return, to teil you that his

96 CARD DRAWING.

heart was changed- — but you have come to
see a greater change than that. Cold enough
his heart is now, Dorgan, towards you and all.
He will not press your band if you take it now.
Oh, do not blame me, fatber," sbe exclaimed,
as she caugbt the clergyman's eye fixed on
her with an expression of reproof, *' I am
wrong — I know I am — but my heart will break
ifl do not give itwords.''

"My own love, take comfort," said Dorgan,
pressing her band and speaking low to her —
" You have lost a kind and good parent — but
you are not yet an orphan, 1 will be fatber, and
friend, and brother to you, while I live. Try,
and be composed like a sweet girl."

Few exbortations are attended with more
influence, than those which proceed from the
Ups of those we love. The interests of two
hearts, united like those of our hero and his
mistress, are so closely blended, so perfect
and harmonious an understanding exists be-
tween them, that an admonition, addressed

CARD DRAWING. 97

^rom one to the other, is received with as ready
X deference as a Suggestion of its own will.
The efFect, which all the remonstrances of her
graver and more venerable friends failed to
produce, was brought to pass in an instant, by
thefew words which Dorgan addressed to her;
and Pennie prepared herseif to give her evi-
dence in some composure, while Dorgan, once
more leaving her side, resumed his place near
the table.

Pennie detailed the circumstances of the
murder in nearly the same words as her little
cousin, until she came to that part of the
transaction at which she was said to have
flung her^elf between her father and the as-
sassin.

'* You must have had an opportunity then,"
said the Coroner, of observing him very
closely. *'Will you have the goodness to
look round the room, and see whether you
can riecognize him among those people V

"I do not think I could know his face
VOL. I. r

98 CARD DRAWING.

again/' she said: "It was blackened at the
time.*'

*'How was he dressed?" inquired his
Worship.

*' I think in a sailor's dress— like Dorgan's,"
she said carelessly.

"You do not think it was I then?" said
Dorgan, smiling.

"You!" replied the girl, pausing as if to
comprehend his question, "I should sooner
say that it was his own act — or as soon/'

'' If we have wronged you by an unworthy
suspicion," said the Coroner to Dorgan, " you
must blame the circumstances and not us — for
they are more than sufficient to Warrant us in
looking well to the case. Are you quite cer-
tain, Miss Mc Loughlen, that this was not
the man whom you withheld from the de-
ceased?"

" Certain, that Dorgan did not murder my
father ! Am I certain of my existence ? I
would stake a thousand lives if I had them,

CARD DRAWING. 99

that Dorgan would not have stirred one of the
gray hairs upon his head, in enmity, if it were
to make him master of the universe."

'* My own Sterling girl !" exclaimed Dorgan,
delighted far more by her ready confidence,
than by the safety which it procured for him —
" when all are turned against me, I have, at
least, one friend in you — for yoii only of all the
World have ever known my heart."

"The coincidence is still very stränge," said
the Coroner — " pray, Miss Mc Loughlen, was
there no mark — no peculiarity of appearance .
about this sailor, by which you might recog-
nize him again if you should meet him ?"

" My memory had nearly deserted me;" re-
plied the young woman: '*When he fiung me
from him, I grasped something which was
hanging to his coat, and brought it away with
me in the struggle. It is this," she added,
handing to the Coroner a piece of silver with
a blue riband attached to it.

" This, indeed, is a most providential and

100 CARD DRAWING«

important circumstance/' said the latter, " and
will do more to further the ends of justice,
perliaps, than many living evidenceSc"

The condemned wretch, who, after having
liis ears greeted with the gladdening tidings
of a reprieve, is informed that the news were
communicated under a mistake, and that he
must still tread the road to the fatal tree, may
imagine what Dorgan feit, when on svviftly
lifting his hand to the breast of his coat, he
found that his Trafalgar medal was missing —
and that, in fact, the piece of silver which the
Coroner held was no other than it. He paused
for some time, in utter ignorance ajid anxiety
as to what his best mode of procedure would
be on the occasion. He saw, in one rapi4
glance, all the fearful consequences of assert-
ing his Claim to the medal, but he feit that any
ih'mg like an attempt at concealment, would
(even though it might afford hinj time to se-
cure his life against the eifects of an erroneous
suspicion), at least, have the consequence of

CARD DRAWING. 101

branding bis name witb ignoQiiny for ever in
bis native land, and Dorgan preferred bis
cbance of banging to tbat.

" I am sensible/' said be to tbe Coroner in a
low voice, "of all tbe injury wbicb I may do
myself by tbe avowal I am about to make —
but I trust tbat all possibilities may be taken
into account. Hovv tbat medal can bave come
into Miss Mc Lougblen's possession, I bave
not tbe remotest idea — but it is mine — tbe
badge of distinction wbicb all received wbo
did tbeir duty on tbe waves of Trafalgar."

^' I really bope," said tbe Coroner, after tbe
murmur of astonisbment and strong interest
occasioned by tbis admission bad subsided —
" I bope you are mistaken. Tbis afFords too
frigbtful a confirmation of tbe circumstances
already recorded againstyou/'

" In tbat," replied Dorgan, "I am unfor-
tunate, as many a brave fellow was before me.
Tbe medal is mine, however. — I won it in
honour, and I will not disown it like a coward."

102 , CARD DRÄWING.

"I am sorry for you," said the Coroner.
*' Keeper !" he beckoned to the person who
held that office in the neighbouring bridewell
— " Hand-cufF your prisoner."

"Prisoner!" exclaimed Pennie, turning pale
as death, and rushing between Dorgan and
the bridewell-keeper — '' What prisoner? Why
would you hand-cuflp Dorgan, ourbest friend?"

''You would alter that opinion, Miss
Mc Loughlen," continued bis Worship, *' if
you knew that this young man was heard last
night to utter the most violent language
against your father — that he was heard to in-
quire respecting the number of people living
in bis house— that he was heard to leave his
bed during the night, in the house where he
slept, to which he returned before morning —
and that now, to crown and to confirm all, he
avows this medal, which you tore from the
murderer's dress, to be his own.'^

"An' if he could'nt swear to it, /could,"
exclaimed the inn-keeper, "for I saw it wit

CARD DRAWING. 103

my own eyes danglen at his breast as he was
going to bed."

" It is all a dream, a wild, improbable, im-
possible Story/' exclaimed the girl with pas-
sion : " Deny it, Dorgan, and teil them they
belie you."

"The circumstances which they have told
you, my dear Pennie," said Dorgan, while she
hung on his words as if to gather from their
meaning the tidings of life or death, " are all
true. I did make those inquiries, — I did
speak in foolish anger against our murdered
friend, — and that medal is indeed mine; but
yet, Pennie — Pennie!^' he reiterat^d as he
feit the bewildered girl recoiling with an ex-
pression of vague and uncertain horror from
his grasp, " I am innocent of this."

" It cannot be," said Pennie ; " both cannot
be. Say — oh, Dorgan, say once again that
this is not your medal. My brain will burst
if you do not say it."

*' I love your happiness well, my poor girl/'

104 CARD DRAWING.

Said Dorgan, lookiiig on her with much
greater pity than he feit for his own fate,
" and I love my own life and character also ;
but I love truth better, and the truth I have
told you all. Will you forsake me now, and
leave me here all alone?" he added mourn-
fully, as she struggled to free herseif from
him.

" Don't hold my hands, Dorgan ! Drag —
pluck me from him," she continued, beckon-
ing rapidly to the clergyman, and speaking in
low, thick, and terrified accents — " Great
Heaven ! how fast I feel my heart changing
towards him! Let go my hand !"

" I will not, tili you say you fling me ofF! —
Look in my face, Pennie, and then call me
your father's murderer if you can. I will not
be told hereafter that you cursed my memory
and reviled my name. I will hear you do so
now before you stir! Am / your father's
murderer?"

** Oh, Dorgan !" the girl exclaimed in a

CARD DRAWING. 105

tone of cruel and piercing anguish, " what a
question you ask? You! you bis murdererl
Was the hand that pressed mine so tenderly
to-day the same that sent the cold steel into
bis brain? Were those arms that supported
me so oftenlike a mother's, the same that
flung me last night against the hard floor? It
is impossible! I was praying, night and
morning, for many years, for your safe return,
and would the Almighty, the kind and mer-
ciful Father of all, send you home at last
only to wet our floor with my old father's
blood? His ways are awful and inscrutable,
but it is not often that he tries bis children so
deeply. And still, Dorgan, there is the medal
that the murderer wore, and you say 'tis yours,
and you can do no more than say you are in-
nocent. Don't blame me, Dorgan, if I wrong
you! I love you, but I would be viler tbran
the dust under your feet if I did not wish to
see justice done to my dead father. — What
am I to'^-tbink or to do? My soul within
F 2

106 CARD DRAWING.

me, that loves you, says Ihat you are inno-
cent, and my senses teil me you are guilty ;
and the end will be, I think, that between
both tales my heart will be broken at last."

She feil back, with a burst of wild grief as
she spoke these words, into the arms of a fe-
male friend, who, at the desire of the Coroner,
hurried her, in a state of insensibility, through
the crowd, and into the next apartment.

Dorgan continued to gaze after her with an
expression of mingled admiration, pity, and
agony blended in his look, until her form was
completely concealed from him by the closing
of the press after her.

" If you have any explanation to ofFer re-
specting those circumstances which seem to
implicate you so strongly, young man," said
the Coroner, " we are willing to hear you
now.'*

Dorgan started at the summons, as if all the
indignant energy which he was capable of
assuming, had been silently gathering within

CARD DRAWING. 107

his breast during the last hour, and were now
for the first time suddenly enkindled at a mo-
ment. " Have I any thing to say?" he ex-
claimedj *'If your souls were not blinded,
would not the case itself make it unnecessary
for me to degrade myself even to a denial of
such a Charge. I ask you, gentlemen !" he
continued, standing erect and flinging his
arms wide as he looked round upon the Com-
pany with that glowing eloquence of eye, and
cheek, and action, which the great instruc-
tress Nature can in an instant infuse on an
occasion of great excitement and emergency
into the constitutions of those to whom the
science itself has ever remained a mystery;
" I ask you, is it likely that on the first night
of iny arrival in my native land, after a long
and profitable absence, with every thing that
was wanted to secure me happiness and ho-
nour for the remainder of my life, and with
the love of such a creature as that to reward
me for ail my sufFerings and slights, and with

108 CARD DRAWING.

the knowledge too that her father repented of
his hard conduct towards me, and longed to
call me his friend again — I ask you, is it likely
that I would, so causelessly, dip my hands in
the blood of that old man, to blast all my own
hopes and prospects for ever ? Is it possible ?
I am a British sailor — is that the character of
a ruffian or a traitor ? That medal which you
hold was given me as a reward for discharging
my duty well and faithfully — is it likely I
would stain it with the blood of a secret mur-
der? I trod the decks of the Victory for seven
years, a deck that was never pressed by the
foot of a CO ward. — I laid my band on the white
hairs of my Commander Nelson, when he lay
bleeding on the bed of glory — is it likely I
should hack and hew the hoary head of a de-
fenceless fellow-creature ? I stood by his side
at Trafalgar, and never shrunk in the day-
light from an enemy's broadside — is it likely
that I would Stab an old man in the dark?*'
The indignant fire and conscious energy of

CARD DRAWING. 109

manner with whicli Dorgan spoke his defence,
produced for ßome moments a pause of re-
spectful silence, if not of admiration ; and he
was sulFered for some time to retain undis-
puted possession of the superiority to wliich
he had thus swiftly lifted himself above the
minds of his common auditors.

" If words could outweigh facts/' the Coro-
ner at length said, " it would, I believe, be-
come our duty to liberate you at once, but
these yet remain unchanged by any thing you
have advanced."

"What can you do but reason on them?"
said Dorgan : " If you cannot understand the
arguments of honour, listen to those of pru-
dence. Do you think it probable that the
murderer of Mc Loughlen would come as I
have done to brave investigation so openly?
Do you think he would have avowed that
medal, which he might have disowned, at
least until he could have placed his life be-
yond the power of the laws?"

110 CARD DRAWING.

" I know not/' said the Coroner, " by what
illusions he might be cheated, or how far he
might be tempted to trust his own ingenuity.
It might be that the Almighty often, for jus-
tice' sake, bereaves the minds of guilty men
of that common sagacity with which he has
gifted most of his creatures for their preserva-
tion, and betrayed them into measures of fool-
hardy confidence, in which a child might
better them. Such instances are of frequent
occurrence, and if yours be one of them, all
that you have been urging tends only to shew
that you have dreadfully misappropriated
qualities which, properly directed, would have
served your country and your fellow-crea-
tures."

" They were never spared in the Service of
either," said Dorgan, " and littla did I think
that this should be my reward."

He was then removed, while the Goroner and
the Jury performed their several ofläces — the
former of stating the case — and the latter of

CARD DRAWING. 111

considering it. In less than a quarter of an
hour after, Dorgan was again called.

" It will be necessary for you," said the
Coroner, " to use every exertion in your power
to prove your innocence (if you still persist in
asserting it), and to collect all the evidence
that is possible, for you are implicated in the
verdict of the j ury . It is, wilful murder against
Duke Dorgan, and some persons unknown."

A deep silence ensued, during which all eyes
were bent on the unfortunate sailor. At the
first announcement of the verdict he turned
deadly pale, his eye became watery, the lid
trembled, and a momentary shivering seemed
to pass through all his frame. But the instant
after, he had resumed his self-command^ and
drawing himself up to his füll height, replied,
calmly,

" I have been considering this occurrence
more deeplysince I withdrew,and am sorry now
for the language which I was tempted, in the
first anger of my heart, to use; not that it af-

112 CARD DRAWING.

fended the truth, but that it argued a very stub-
bornwill towards the ordinance of Heaven. I
should have recollected that you are not to
blame for your error in this. If it were not
His will, and did not further some wise and
useful, though hidden design of His, you could
not lay a violent finger upon a hair of my head.
Myinnocence is not the less white in his eyes
for being wrongfuÜy attainted in those of men.
I have a strong confidence in his mercy, that
the real murderer will yet be discovered, and
that I shall never die for this deed : — but if that
confidence should fail me, I have at least the
satisfaction of knowing that we shall all, in the
end, be judged together before a bar where no
injustice can be commi tted . May all who hear
me, obtain a fairer hearing at that bar, than I
have met with at yours !"

The house was soon after cleared of all but
the unhappy family of the deceased and their
friends, Many of the spectators, as they took
their way over the fields, were heard to express

CARD DRAWING. 113

their regret at such a misfortune happening to
" such a bright boy"as our hero, while others
shook their heads and declared (on the autho-
rity in many instances of severe personal expe-
rience) that *' Duke had ever an always too
good a Warrant for a hard blow/' and that
the destiny which seemed now to hang over
his head, was no other than had been often
prophesied for him, " many a long year be-
fore/^

Poor Duke in the mean time was conducted,
heavily ironed, to the neighbouring Bridewell,.
as a place of temporary confinement, until an
opportunity should arrive of transmitting him
to the county gaol. Here, when the key (the
rusty grating of which in the lock spoke pretty
well for the morality of the district) had locked
him in to the Company of his own lonely
thoughts, he could not help exclaiming, as he
extended his manacled hands, in the language
which Southerne has put into the mouth of the
unhappy Biron, and which we have prefixed as

114 CARD DRAWING.

an appropriate motto to his history : " Is this
my welcome home ?"

The friends of the deceased, in the mean
time, were busied in administering the conso-
lations which their humble, though sincere
understandings suggested, to his wretched
daughter. She was seated on the side of the
d,imity-curtained camp-bed in her own apart-
ment, while the clergyman, whose influence
alone appeared capable of restraining her, still
occupied a chair at her side ; and several of her
male and female friends were placed in difFe-
rent parts of the room, ofFering now and then
those venerable and hereditary expressions of
consolation which are usually put forward on
such occasions, and which at least have one
merit, that of their perfect and unquestionable
veracity — such as, *' that Pennie might as well
howl her whisht,''*' for if she was to cry her eyes
out, 'twould'nt make him alive again," and va-
rious other undeniable facts of that nature,

* Hold her peace.

CARD DRAWING. 115

while tlie clergyman with a truer insight into
human nature, directed her attention to that
beautiful passage of Ecclesiasticus in which
we are told to " weep but a little for the dead,
for he is at rest!"

" It is not all for the dead, father — heaven
forgive me ! — that I grieve," said the poor girl
— " The Almighty made a short word with my
father— but his mercy is swifter than the mur-
derer's knife— and I trust in that, hoping that
he is one of those who are at rest. But I have
still a trouble in my heart, for the living. I
wish, if it was heaven's will, that I were waked
beside my father, before I had lived to doubt
Dorgan for so revengeful a heart. You, you,
Kinchela!" she continued, as Pryce entered
the room with a face of deep sorrow and com-
miseration — '* you were not so hard ! — On my
knees, here, I ask your pardon (don't hinder
me, father!) for all that I ever said or did
against you for your over-great mildness.
You pardoned the old man, and made him no

116 CARD DRAWING.

answer in his anger. You would not shed his
blood in return for a hot word. The Lord
that sees into the secrets of all men, will re-
member it for you another day !"

*' Stand up !" Kinchela exclaimed, turning
pale with agitation, while he lifted her has-
tily from the earth, and then hurried from
her side: *' Why should you be kneelen to
me, Pennie, darlen? I don't deserve them
words/'

" You wrong yourself/' said the clergyman,
who remembered Kinchela's remonstrance to
Dorgan, which he had accidentally overheard
on the previous evening : " I heard you utter
sentiments yesterday, which would have done
honour to many a cultivated mind. It would
be well for the young man who is now lying in
chains for this murder, if he had profited by your
example and advice. But/' he continued, heed-
less of the real distress which his praise (the
result of a very natural feeling of adrairation)
appeared tooccasionto the objectofit — "let

CARD DRAWING. 117

not this mbve you to pride, for from it all per-
dition had its beginning. — If you stand now,
take heed lest you fall. You, perhaps, were
among those wlio witnessed Dorgan's confi-
dence, before the fatal train of circumstances
was raade out against him. Lei that example
place you on your guard; remember wlien you
may be tempted to any offence, that there is no
hiding-place on earth for the guilty, when the
Almighty chooses to mark them out with his
finger ; and that, as sure as the rising of the sun
that hides him at night in the west, so sure is
the uncloaking of the deeds of the evil-worker,
though he enclose himself vvithin four walls,
and asks ' what eye can see him?' while he
sins under the veil of a denser than Egyptian
darkness."

The words of the clergyman appeared to
exercise a strong; influence on the mind of the
person whom he addressed ; so much so, that
his colour went and came several times while
he listened. When the reverend gentleman

118 CARD DRAWING.

liad concluded, Kinchela took a hasty farewell
of the Company, on the plea of being obliged
to prepare for a seal-hunt in the caverns near
the Head, on the following morning. He left
the inmates of the dwelling to make the neces-
sary arrangements for the evening wake of the
old man, while he hastened under the already
advancing shades of night, to his own humble
dwelling near the coast.

Ile hurried over the interjacent hills, with a
speed which was in part occasioned by his
anxiety to reach the coast in time to make
the necessary arrangements for the seal hunt,
and, in a great measure also, by his fear of
encountering a straggler from the host of evil
spirits, whose hour of dominion on the earth
was fast approaching. He raised with an un-
steady band the latch of the hurdle door of his
cabin, and was received by the only member
of his family whom he had ever known, and
whom he really loved with an afFection greater
and more permanent than any which he had

CARD DRAWING. 119

ever feit towards a human being — his aged
and infirm mother.

There are, perhaps, none of the social con-
nexions of human life more touching, more
interesting, and more perfectly free from the
alloy of selfish motive, than those which bind
the hearts of mother and son, or of father and
daughter. The purer qualities that mingle in
all other afFections — the respect of youth for
age — and the tenderness of age for youth —
the protecting and depending iove that binds
the sexes — the warmth and softness of con-
jugal affection, without any of its changes or
suspicions — the finer essences, in short, of all
the various impulses by which the spirits of
human beings are led to mingle and flow to-
gether in a league of mutual confidence and
Support, are here sublimed and united in their
füllest strength and purity. Neither are such
instances of generous Iove less interesting,
when they are found to exist in classes where
there is little of external refinement to grace

120 CARD DRAWING.

and adorn them. The gold of Nature is of ihe
same Sterling quality in its bed of rough ore,
as when it glitters on the breast of beauty
er of royalty — it is only the figure that is
altered. If the frame-work of the human cha-
racter were not composed of the same mate-
rials through all classes, what hope could we
have that the rieh, the elegant, and the high-
born, would honour with their sympathy the
pictures of humble sorrow and affection, which
these Tales are ijitended to present ? — Less —
even less, than we venture to entertain while
we are employed in sketching them.

The affection of Kinchela for his aged
mother, was one of the features in his cha-
racter, which had procured him a considerable
portion of regard in the neighbourhood ; such
filial affection being looked on with a pecuhar
esteem in Ireland — a country where (to use a
familiär expression of its own peasantry), " a
man's child is alwaye his child," for the in-
terests of a family are seldom divided, even

CARD DRAWING. 121

by marriage. The old widow was pious and
honest — and though Price did not possess
either ofthose qualities in any brUliant degree
himself, he respected them in his parent, and
was careful to preserve from her knowledge
any part of his conduct by which they might be
offended. Without feeling in his own heart any
extraordinary respect for the precepts of his
Church, he was frequently known to smuggle
a keg of tobacco or Hollands, in order to
enable his mother to pay her Christmas or
Easter dues — and would have stolen a sheep
for the suet, rather than she should sufFer any
Gonscientious qualms about the want of the
usual present of candles for the altar, never
daring to supply her with either, until he taxed
his ingenuity to furnish a perfectiy satisfac-
tory story, which would set all her doubts or
scruples at rest.

The good woman was now seated by their
fire of turf and pieces of wreck, engaged in
keeping warm the simple fare which was

VOL. I. G

122 CARD DRAWING.

intended for her son's dinner. A small deal
table w:as placed near the hearth, and close to
it a rush-bottomed cbair ready set for hia
use. Over a few red coals which were broken
small, the iron tongs, placed lengthwise,
and opened a little, was made to perform
the part of a gridiron towards a beautiful
Beltard turbot, which a gourmand would have
judged worthy of a prouder table, and a more
elaborate process of cookery.

*' A hundred thousand welcomes, child of
my heart," said the old woman, speaking in
her native language ; '* I thought the very
darkness would not bring you home to me.
Sit down/'

Kinchela took bis seat at the table in silence,
while bis mother placed before him the food
which she had prepared. She perceived, how-
ever, that he did not eat vvith bis usual dis-
patch and satisfaction.

*' There is some secret hanging on your
mind, my fair hepa't," said she, '' you do not

CARD DRAWING. 123

'jat. You did not sleep at liome these two
nights — and when you came in this morning,
you looked paler than paper, and trembled
like a straw upon the water/'

" I did'nt sleep abroad either/' replied Kin-
chela, *' an' sure what eise would I be only
pale after that, an' I being gelten the canoes
ready all night, let alone what I heerd this
mornen, moreover."

"What was that, darling?"

" Old Mc Loughlen to be murthered last
night in bis own house, over."

The old woman uttered an exclamation of
horror — " Woe and sorrow !" she exclaimed,
** when will they be weary of drawing the
blood of the gray-headed? Your own father,
Price, died by the cold steel. It is true for
the priest what he said from the altar last
Sunday, that Ireland was more cursed by the
passions of her own children, than ever she
was by Dane or Sassenagh. The judgment
of the Jews will fall on us at last. We are

124 CABD DRAWrNG.

hunted through our country and from our
country in punishment of our sins. We have
drunk of the dregs of the cup of trembling,
and have well nigh wrung them out."

'' They say, Dorgan — Duke Dorgan, that
lived near the sally-coop, eastwards, did the
deed. I saw 'em taken of him to Bridewell,
on the head of it."

" There ! there, Pryce I" said his mother.
" Remember my words when you were refused
by him, and when you swore to me that you
would never forgive him the longest day you*d
live/'

" I did not swear it !" said Kinchela, start-
ing, as if in alarm.

'* You did — and sorry enough you were for
it afterward. You might have been in Dor-
gan's place, if it were not for the mercy of
Heaven."

" Let US have no more talk about it now,
whatever," said Pryce; *' I'U want to take a
little rest before goen to the sale-hunt; an' I

CARD DRAWINC. 125

must have the canoe near the caverns before
day-break. Do you get the wattles an' the
charcoal ready, mother, an' lay 'em there,
a-nigh the settle-bed, agen I get up."

Pryce retired to his bed-room, but seemed
to be haunted even in the darkness and soli-
tude of this retreat by a certain uneasy train
of feeling which appeared to have been cling-
ing to him throughout the day. He had truly
stated to his mother that he passed the former
night without sleep ; but this circumstance, in-
stead of making him sink the more easily into
siumber, had only the effect of weakening his
nerves, and Alling his brain with all the frantic
iniages of sleep, without any of its calmness
or comfort. His mother, disturbed by the
restless moans which proceeded from his
Chamber, laid down the bag of charcoal which
she was preparing, and taking a rush-light,
made fast in the fissure of a twig, in her band,
entered the room. H^r son was at that mo-
ment labouring under a hideous dream. His

126 CARD DRAWING.

h^ad hung down over the bed-side, bis arm»
were extended, bis forebead and bair damp
with sweat. He saw, in fancy, tbe corpse of
the old man as it lay stretched on tbe table at
Mc Lougblen's, and seemed to be oppressed
with tbe conviction that some person bad
seized and was taxing bim with the deed.

'VLet go my tbroat!'' be muttered boarsely.
**It was not I — 'Twas Dorgan — Dorgan did
it, and not I ! — He lies — tbe old man never
named me — he could not — for my face was
blackened. Let go my throüt!"

" Tbe Almighty protect and bless my son !"
said tbe woman, as sbe stirred bim, and made
him spring up terrified in bis bed, " wbat
wörds are these?"

Kincbela lemained for some time sitting
erect, bis eyes wild and staring, and bis raouth
agape with terror. Consciousness at length
stole lipon bim, and covering bis face with
bis hands, be leaned forward for some mo-
ments in silence. ,

CARD DRAWING. 127

"What was the matter, child?" the old
woman at length asked, as she laid her band
afFectionately on his Shoulder.

" Nothen ! — nothen — only dreamen greatly
I was — Aren't you gone to bed yet, mother?"

*'No,darling; 'tisii't far in the night. Those
Vere dreadful words you spoke, Pryce?"

"Did I talk out o' my sleep?"

'^Youdid; you spoke as if somebody was
charging you with a great crime, and you de-
nied it, and bid them to let go your throat."

Pryce pau^wsl^Lraoment. " Well, mother,".
Said he at length, *' iNlidn't think it would be
so aisy to take a start out o' you. Sure 'twas
funnen I was all that while."

" There was little mirth then in your voice
or in your actions,^' replied his mother, still
speaking (as she always used) in her verna-
cular tongue, " I thought the hag of the night
had been throttling you."

" I teil you 'twas a joke, agen. Sure Ifelt
you comen into the room. I was as broad

128 CARD DRAWING.

awake as you are now. Go to bed, mothef,
an' hear to me ! Don^t say anythen o' this in
the mornen, for 'twouldn't look well to be
joken on such a business/'

The aged widow left the room and retired to
her own settle-bed, after offering up her usual
portion of nightly invocations to the throne of
mercy for all blessings upon all men ; while
her son remained wrapt in a mood of intense
reflection, sitting on his bed-side, and using
every exertion in his power to compose his
troubled spirit.

" For years an' years," said he, " I was
looken to that hour, an' I thought it would be
worth all 1 ever suffered or ever could suffer to
live to see it ; an' now it has come, an' is this
the happiness it was to bring me ? The pains of
hunger and thirst, the cold of the winter night,
the shame and disgrace that 1 endured, wor
no more than child's play to the sight of him
as^ he lay gaspen and groanen on the ground
before me. Murder is a fearful thing for all!"

CARD DRAWING.

12^

Suddenly, while he paused and remained
fixed in horror at the bed-side, a Sensation of
streng fear, one of those powerful nervous
afFections by which persons of deep thougli
silent passions, and ill-regulated minds, are
liable to be assailed on any startling occäsion,
rushed to bis heart and caused the blood to
recoil upon it in such quantity, as to obstruct
its action, and endanger, to bis own thoiight,
the very structure of the organ. Its pulses
ceased for a moment and then resumed their
play, with a violence which filled bim with^
terror. He heard distinctly every bound
which the irritated muscle made within bis
bosom, and a swift and unaccountable sus-
picion darted through his mind, that this was
but the signal of a dissolution of the entire
frame ; that the hour of death, which no acci-^
dent of illness or of peril had ever brought
before bim, was now arrived; and that he was
presently to undergo that awful and myste-
rious change, at the prospect of which, even
G 2

130 CARD DRAWING.

the itnpenetrable heart of the sophist becomes
illumined by a horrid light, and tbe souls of
the saints themselves are not alvvays free front
anxiety, that change at the presence of which
th6 light laugh or jest of petty malice, which
was deemed so venial in the discourse of the
preceding day, seems to swell and darken into
a crime sufficiently enormous to blot out the
light of paradise frora our eyes for ever. The
wretched man believed that he was now
about to be hurried, fresh from the very act of
his offending, before the judgment-seat, the
terrors of which he had often heard depicted,
but which had never affected his mind with
any other Sensation than that of weariness and
impatience, until now that he almost beheld it
within the scope of his own vision. He lay back
in an agony of horror on his bed — the world
and his worldly interests and connexions
seemed to crumble into dust before his eyes —
be was sensible of nothing but the eternal ruin
that hang over him. He clasped his hands.

CARD DRAWING. 131

vvhile a thick Perspiration spread over all his
frame, and prayed loudly for mercy, promising
in his anguish that if he were granted but a
little time, all should be disclosed, and justice
fulfilled at any cost. While he continued
praying, the beating of his heart subsided, a
gradual relief crept over his spirits, which
were at length lulled fast in a sound and
dreamless slumber.

The first gray light of the winter day-break
was Streaming through the single pane of
glass which was set in the mud wall of his"
apartment, when the voice of an acquaintance
roused him from his short sleep. For a few
moments after he woke, he feit as if nothing
had taken place out of the usual course of
events, and proceeded to raake the necessary
preparations for the seal-hunt.

"We've every thing ready," said the man,
" the canoes are at the Poul a Dhiol,* an'
we 're goen to have some fun besides with
* The Demon's Hole, near Loup Head.

132 CARD DRAWING.

Lewy Madigan, the publican o' the Bee-hive,
that's comen wit uz — an' — whisht! — Is there
any body there wit you?"

" No."

" Bekays I met Dorgan now an' a streng
party, goen to Ennis, where the assizes are
held this week. They say he won't call any
witnesses, an' wants to be tried as soon as
they can."

Pryce dropped the net which he had taken
up, and remained silent for a moment. The
consciousness of his Situation came rushing at
once upon his mind, and he remembered with
terror the vow of disclosure which he had
made in the night. He now stood, however,
in very diflferent circumstances; the cheerful
daylight was about him, he feit secure in th«
possession of excellent health, and he half
resolved in his own mind to postpone the ful-
filment of his promise for some time yet.

Before he left the house, he took a small
iron pot fiUed with potatoes, washed and

CARD DRAWING, 133

ready for boiling, which he proceeded to hang
on the fire. "Yes— that's what TU do/' he
Said with himself — " what fear is there o' me
now ? Sure it's time enough to think about
it yet."

A Singular accident made him alter this
opinion. At the moment that he spoke, a
large stone, unfixed by the band of Time from
its Position in the roof of the wide chinmey,
feil within an inch of bis forehead, and dashed
the vessel to pieces between his hands. If it
had only held its place one second longer, his
brains would have infallibly suffered the same
fate. He started aghast with the conviction
of a present and powerful Providence. What
security had he now? — what was the use of
the ingenious scheme which he had contrived
to preserve his life and escape all suspicion,
when it was no more within his own power
than if he were already at the tree?^

As they proceeded together toward that part
of the cliff at which their canoes (a light boat, as

134 CARD DllAWINC.

ancient as the days of Ollam Fodla, con-
structed of horse-skin, which is used by the
fishermen on those coasts) were moored ; Kin-
chela ventured to hint a Sensation of his re-
morse, to the rough fellow who accompanied
him. The latter happened to be one of those
coldruffians, whose crimes are the offspring of
interest and not of passion, and who was alike
incapable of wanton cruelty or of merciful for-
bearance. The Suggestion filled him with rage.

" That I may be happy, Kinchela," said he ;
'* but you 're just what I always took you for.
You wor the cruelest savage among us at
the time — an' now Fll lay my life you '11 be the
fusht to split."

" Well, howl your tongue, Fed, an' we '11
say nothen more about it. Only I wisht I
could avoid the double murder, any way."

'* What murther is it, man ? E' what nonsins
you talk ! Sure you know yourself, if Dorgan
was there he'd do the very same — an' twas
only to get the start of him you did."

CARD DRAWING. 135

Kinchela did notpursue the subject farther,
although the reasoning of his companion did
not fuUy satisfy his mind that Dorgan de-
served hanging for being liable to temptatlon.
They had at this moment reached the brink
of a long line of rocky clifFs, of considerable
height, the bases of which were in many places
hoUowed out to a considerable distance inland.
They continued their course over a large turf
mountain (on which the signal tower was
placed in a most commanding Situation), the
surface of which was covered with a short
scanty moss, that afforded pasturage to a num-
ber of sheep; while, at another season, it
might have furnished the whole country with
mushrooms. The broken jags and edges of
the great clifFs at the head soon began to make
themselves visible. The first on which they
arrived, presented a broken descent some
hundred feet high, at the base of which lay a
sloping ledge of rock, against whose jutting
and uneven sides the bright green waves of

136 CARD DRAWING.

the Atlantic lashed themselves (on more
boisterous mornings than the present), as if
chafing at the stern and fixed rebuke which
this gigantic natural boundary opposes to their
fury ; sometimes rushing fiercely up its sides,
and leaving their white and foaming waters in
the narrow crevices of crag, from which they
areseen descending again in a thousand milky
streams. They tried to descend here, but
found it dangerous ; that part of the recess
which, Seen from a little distance, appeared to
to be sufficiently broken and slanting, proving,
when they came near it, much more closely
allied to the perpendicular. A little farther
toward the Head, however, they chanced upon
the Poul a Dhiol, or Devil's Hole ; (and cer-
tainly, his Satanic majesty appears to have
displayed quite as much taste in his selection
of a salt-water lodge, as he did in the choice
of a Summer residence in the county of Wick-
low). It was a recess of gigantic size, formed
in the solid clifF by the beating of the waves.,.

CARD DRAWING. 137

if not originally so moulded, or left as a relic
of chaotic matter, unsubdued to the form and
uses to which the great mass of the material*
of which this beautiful globe of earth and
water is compounded, has been reduced.
This recess runs at first into the land, and
tken some hundred yards to the left, as it is
viewed from the water.

Perceiving an easy mode of descent, Kin-
chela and his friend made good their entry
into the infernal palace, and were stopped
about half way down by an enormous rock,
which lay across the glen, and seemed to allow
no hope of proceeding farther. Acquainted,
however, with the facilities of the descent,
they entered a small aperture left underneath^.
The spectacle which the Poul a Dhiol pre-
sented when viewed from beneath this arch-
way, was grand and striking, as well as Singu-
lar in the highest degree. Through the open-
ing, as they looked upward, they could see
the cliff heads piled together to the height of

138 CARD DRAWING.

some hundred feet, leaving between the
imeven masses of rock the wild and craggy
Space through which they had descended.
Below them, at a depth of many fathoms, the
ocean waves heaved sluggishly against the
huge rocks, which were almost polished and
rounded by the untiring» dash of the waters.
Passing from beneath the rock, the fishermen
sufFered themselves to drop with little diffi-
culty to the next ledge ; and running from
one enormous crag to another down to the
water's edge, began to make the necessary
preparations for their morning's sport, without
stopping to indulge in any of the sensations of
deep and trembling awe, with which the mag-
nificence and grandeur of the scene, into the
centre of which they had intruded, musthave
impressed the mind of a stranger. They stood
in the midst of a vast natural hall, a few yards
in width, and walled in on either side to the
height of many hundred feet; the solid cli ff'
on the landward side appearing directly to

CARD DRAWING. 130

överbang their heads. Opposite, in a dark

recess of the clifF and placed on a ledge of rock

at some height from the water, was a large

crag, approaching in form to a lobster's claw,

based on the obtuse end, which, from the sin-

gularity of its appearance, contributed much

to the bizarre and fantastic grandeur of the

scene. Looking toward the opening of the

recess, they beheld the projections of three

stupendous and overhanging clifFs, within the

compass of a quarter of a mile ; the farthest

ofF being the land's end or actual Head, ori

which the light-house was still flinging its

fading beams against the morning splendour.

Close to the opening was a lofty island, perpen-

dicular at all sides, and circular in shape, of

dimensions so circumscribed, that it seemed

to rise from the waters at the entrance like

the remaining column of a porch. Its heathy

and tabular summit was covered with sea-gulls,

which kept wheeling and screaming perpetu-

ally among the crags and precipices. Close

140

CARD DRAWING.

to the Head was a large insular crag, which
rose even higher than the lofty clifF from which
it seemed at one time or another to have been
separated, and formed a noble termination to
this magnificent coup-d'oeil. The prevailing
impression which the scene, conteniplated
from the place where the fishermen stood, was
calculated to leave on an unaccustomed mind,
was that of fear, and an anxious, and almost
tumultuous excitation of the spirits. There
was an oppressive sense of confinement and
insecurity, which repressed the struggling ad-
miration that a spectacle of even inferior power
or sublimity might have awakened.

Several canoes were already made fast near
the rocks, and a number of fishermen were seen
u\ various clefts of the sullen crag, preparing
their poles or wattles with bags of charcoal af-
fixed to them, touching the use of which they
furnish a rather whimsical account of the ani-
mal's nature. They say that the seal is very
certain to lay hold of the person who first ap-

CARD DRAWING, 141

proaches him, and to retain his hold, until he
hears the bone crack under his teeth. In
Order to deceive him in this matter, the fisher-
men extend a long pole with a bag of charcoal
attached, which bag he crunches with aremark-
ably good will, while his enemies muster around
and destroy him with staves. For the truth of
this Story we will not vouch, as it certainly is
not very complimentary to the sagacity of the
animal.

The groups of movingfigures in the crags —
the tossing of the light canoes beneath — the.
dreary waste of the now peaceful ocean spread-
ing in the distance — and the uncertain morn-
ing light which at once shadowed and illumined
the whole picture in the manner best adapted to
aid the grandeurof effect which it was calculat-
ed to produce, might possiblyhave arrested for
a considerable time, the attention of persons
more capable of appreciating its sublimity than
Kinchela and his friend, who were too familiär
with its beauties, and too deficient in refine-

142 CARD DRAWING.

ment of taste to pause for a moment in their
contemplation.

After they had descended, they were met by
a man, who appeared to have been expecting
their arrival.

*' I declare, gentlemen," said he, accosting
them in the manner of a condescending supe-
rior — " I have been prefixed upon this rock
the livelong mgrn, expecten your descension.
That's a commendable canoe you have, Fed."

*' Oyeh wisha, middlen."

" Dear knows, it is. They say the sales are
congregated in a very spontaneous manner
under the clifFs, at ßallybunion this mornen."

*• O, enough for sport, TU be bound, Mr.
Madigan," said Fed, who recognized at first
sight, in the Speaker, the accomplished inn-
keeper of the ßee-hive, a man revered in the
neighbourhood, for his knowledge of English,
and laughed at now and then for his cowardice.
" You'll go with US, I suppose, sir?"

" I profess to you, my dear, I am onaisy in

CARD DRAWING. 143

myself on the prospect of it. I should not ad-
inire much to be substituted onder one o' them
caverns, when the tide would be on the alert
with xne."

" O, no fear in life, sir. The wathur is like
glass, to-day. Come along, Kinchela — We'll
just take one turn at the sales, an' then we'll
go westwards a piece, an' get a feow bags o'
the barnocks."

They put ofF, and the whole party were pre-
sently gliding under the cliffs at the Head, on
their way to the caverns^ each canoe being fur-
nished with a lighted torch, to enable them,
with greater facility, to explore the mazes of
the gloomy subterrene, into which they were
about to penetrate. As the first boats entered,
it seemed to those who were following at some
distance, and notyetnearenough todistinguish
the mouth of the cavern, as if their companions
had discovered, and were prosecuting the way
to the regions ofthose subaqueous sprites, who
aresupposedbythepeasantry to peoplethevast

144 CARD DRAWING.

palaces of ihe deep, and wear out their immor-
tality in ä fairy land more gorgeous than that to
which the rause of Southeyintroduced the pro-
tector of his heroine. In a short time our ac-
quaintances found themselves in the centre of
one ofthose lofty natural halls; the roof, irregu-»
larlyarched above, sometimes at the height of
three, sometimes twenty feet, and glittering in-
distinctly in the light of the numerous torches,
which vvere also reflected from the face of the
broken waters, with a splendour which pre-
sented a brilhant contrast to the dense gloom
of the interior of the cavern, and which, of
course, would have reminded the reader of
Rembrandt.

" It is a speculation of uncommon per-
plexity," said Mr. Madigan, ** those exuberant
rocks overhead ; I protest to you, I think they
appear on the verge of suspense, as if they'd
exterminate us all into a watery grave."

The canoes proceeded farther up the cave,
iintil the dashing of waters, within a few yards

CARD DRAWING.

145

of them,intimated theirproximityto theledges
of rock on which the objects of their search
were accustomed to secrete themselves at par-
ticular seasons,and vvhere they frequently suffer
their pursuers to approacb them, without mak-
ing any attempt at escape or resistance until
violence has been actually ofFered. While
they pursued their game in the interior, Ma-
digan petitioned to be left on one of the outer
ledges, unwilling to trust his English into the
perils of the hunt ; while Kinchela and his com-
panion, perceiving that they might be spared
from the party, left the cavern for the purpose
of gathering barnocks (a shell fish which is
here found of a prodigious size), from the sides
of a neighbouring clifF.

The clifF which they selected for this pur-
pose, was the Bellauil Rock ; which presents,
from the plainness and smoothness of its per-
pendicular side, a striking contrast to the rough
and broken barrier, which opposes its irregulär
strength to the ocean on either side. It is one

VOL. T. H

146 CARD DRAWING.

of the loftiest in the ränge, and as it afFords no
path or means of descent in any part, the fisher-
men are obliged to lower themselves by ropes
to its centre, or to any portion of it, on which
the harvest of barnocks happens to be most
plentiful. Kinchela and his friend made profit
of the retiring tide, however, from their canoes,
sind then proceeded by land to Claunsevane, or
the Natural Bridge, a piece of scenery with
which we will conclude our rather copious
sketch of the coast, and the Omission of which
would leave that sketch very incomplete.

They passed along a precipitous ränge of
clifFs, until they were made aware of the proxi-
mity of the place by the thundering of the
waters on their left, although the day was calm
rather than otherwise. They passed the PufF-
ing Hole of Ross (one of those natural jets
d'eau, which abound on the coast, and which
are formed by a narrow opening, inland, over
one of the caverns, into which the ocean waves
rush with such fury as to force their way

1

CARD DRAWINÜ. 147

through the neck, and ascend to a prodigious
heiglit in the air above), and in a short time
found themselves on the borders of the preci-
pitous inlet of Claunsevane. It was a small bay
with a narrow opening toward the Atlantic,
and walled round at all sides by a rugged crag
which rose to a prodigious height. Across an
arm oi this inlet was a narrow ränge of crag,
connecting the clifFs at either side, having the
bay on one side, and on the other a deep basin,
into which the waters flowed through three
natural arches formed in the solid crag. A
very narrow pathway was made on the summit
of this Singular natural bridge, several hundred
feet above the arches, the fall at either side,
but especially that toward the ocean, being al-
naost quite perpendicular. In the base of the
clifF inside the basin were a number of small
caves ; and in another corner of the inlet a tall
column of rock, not more than a yard, perhaps,
in diameter, rose from the waves nearly to the
height of the cliff, at a little distance from which

148 CARD DRAWING.

it stood. This pillar, which is called the Stick,
gives an air of uncommon wildness to the
scene.

Kinchela liaving, with the assistance of his
friend, succeeded in securing near the edge of
the clifF, a kind of rüde windlass, for the pur-
pose of enabling them to increase their störe
of barnocks, made fast their rope in the earth,
and prepared to descend.

This was a feat which he had been accus-
tomed to perform, almost daily, from his boy-
hood, and he never had, for one moment, feit
a greater degree of repugnance or apprehen-
sion, than he would have experienced in Walk-
ing on the firm soil. But he was now an
altered man, and he feit, as he put his foot
in the loop which was made in the end of
the rope, and grasping it with both hands,
launched hiraself from the brow of the " per-
nicious height," a Sensation of insecurity, and
a sinking of the heart, such as he never before
had feit in any Situation whatever. He even

C A n D D R A \V 1 N G . 149

wished that he had taken the pfecautioii
(though it would have had but a covvardly air,)
to secure himself to the rope, by tying it to
his waist — but it was now too late for reflec-
tion, and he had only to trust his customary
chances for a safe return to the firm earth.

While he was occupied in filling his net
with the barnocks which he Struck from the
rock, he suddenly heard a crackling noise
above his head, and looking up, saw that one
of the divisions of the rope had given way,
leaving the whole weight of his person on th^
faith of a single cord, not more than half an
inch in diameter^ He was now suspended in
mid-air, more than a hundred feet from the
summit, and saw, at a fearful distance beneath,
the points of the rugged crag, around which
the waters were now slumbering in almost a
moveless calm. He feared to stir — to speak —
to give any indication uf his danger, lest it
flhould only have the efFect of making the
latter more imminent. His ümbs trembled, and

150 CARD DRAWING.

becan:fce bathed in Perspiration, while he cast
bis eyes on that part of the rope where the
fissure had taken place. He could almost
— and only almost, reach it witli bis band.
Again all the borrors of the preceding nigbt
and morning were renewed, and a stupifying
lerror seized upon bis brain. He ventured, at
lengtb, to give the signal, at which bis com-
panion was to dravv him to the sumniit. —
Wbile be was doing so, and while be yet biing
suspended between the dreadful alternative of
life or death, some of the canoes passed imder
bim on their way from the caverns to their
bomes, and the fishermen, in their own ab-
original language, began to hoot and jibe him
as they passed, making various allusions to
bis Position in the air, and drawing analogies
concerning the rope, the humourof which poor
Kincbela was in no condition to appreciate.
A cold shivering passed througb bis limbs,
wben be saw the feeble portion of it approach
the rugged edge of the clifT — and bere, as if

CARD DRAWING. 151

for the purpose of increasing his agony, Fed
stopped turning the windlass, and approached
the brink with marks of alarm and astonishment.

" E', Pryce, man," said he, " do you see the
danger you're in all this while ? Sure there's
the rope med a' most two halves of, above you.
Sure if that broke you*d be ruined, man/'

" Wisha, then, Fed, what news you teil ! —
Is that the reason you stop haulen of it, in
dread Fd have any chance at all. Murther
alive, see this."

" Fll pull you up if you like, man, but what
härm was there in me teilen you your danger."

" All o' one 'tisn't too well I knevv it. Pull
away, an' sonuher to you."

Fed resumed his post at the windlass, and
in a few moments after, Kinchela grasped the
edge of the clifF: he succeeded in scrambling
up — after which, without speaking a word
to his companion, he flung down the net of
barnocks, and fled, as if he were hunted by
the fiends, in the direction of his mother's

152 CARD DHAWING.

house— whilehis companion, after gazingafter
him and at the barnocks for a few moments,
packed up their implements, and took to bis
heels, under the füll conviction tbat the phuca
was Coming up the clifFto them.

" Tbe Almighty is impatient, I believe/*
said Pryce, when he had reached bis own
door, " he will wait no longer. — There is no
use in my hoping to escape-~I must do it
at last — an' I ougbtn't to be dragged and
frightened into it this way, so that there'll be
no thanks to me in the end."

Notwithstanding this wholesome reflection,
the weakness of the man's nature was such,
that many days elapsed before he could pre-
vail on himself to put in act any portion of the
measures necessary for the accomplishment of
bis resolution. Even after he had learned
from a neighbour that Dorgan's sentence had
already passed, and that the day was appointed
on which he was to be executed, in the neigh-
bourhood where the offence had taken place.

CARD DRAWING. 153

he sustained many terrific struggles with his
conscience, before he could bring himself to
form a füll and unreserved Intention of making
the disclosure, whatever it might be, which
oppressed his soul. He feit his fears, at one
time, muster on him in such excess, as to
overpower, for the moment, every other con-
sideration besides that of his immediate per-
sonal safety ; and at another, the recollection
of the perils he had iindergone, and the im-
certain tenure of his own life, which they ma-
nifested to him, renewed his remorse and his
terror of another more powerful tribunal than
that which here awaited him. He recollected
too, araid his merely selfish reflections, the
destitution which must attend the lonely old
age of his unhappy parent, when he should be
no longer able to minister to her wants, as he
had done from his youth upwards ; but again
he recollected that a superior duty called him
away, and he resolved to commit her fortunes
to the care of the Being who summoned him
H 2

15'4 CARD DRAWING.

from her side, by warnings so singular and
impressive — warnings, however fearful they
might seem, which it would not, perhaps, re-
quire much enthusiasm, to atüibute to the
mercy shewn on behalf of tbis single virtue,
which looked so lonely and beautiful amid the
darkness and the multiplicity of his crimes.

Dorgan in the meantime was left to medi-

tate, in the solitude of a condemned cell, on

the singular fatality of the circumstances

which had conducted him to it. The cere-

mony of a trial has been so often and so well

delineated, and the facts that were proved on

that of Dorgan, were so nierely a repetition of

those which have already been laid before

the reader in the account of the Coroner^s

inquest, that we have esteemed it unneces-

sary to go at length into the subject. What-

ever amusement the reader might find in

the blunders of Irish witnesses, or the sole-

cisms of an Irish court of justice — these af-

forded but little subject of m^erriment to our

CARD DRAWING. 165

{)oor hero, who, in spite of the confident anli-
cipations which he bad expressed to the
Coroner, beheld himself placed within the
peril of a disgraceful death, at the very mo-
ment when he expected to enter on the enjoy-
mentofalife of domestic comfort and quiet
happiness — happiness which was so justly
earned by a youth of exertion and providence.
Neither had he the comfort of leaving on earth
a Single heart that was impressed with the
conviction of bis innocence. Unjustly as he
bad been treated by the world, bis was not
one ofthose natures which could take refuge
in misanthropy from the agony of disap-
pointed feelings ; and he longed, anxiously
longed, for some opportunity of Clearing him-
self, at least, in the opinion of one individual.
But tbe instant after, he reproached himself
for this wish, as selfish and unworthy. " No !'*
Said he, *' her knowledge of my innocence ob-
tained only through my own assertion, would
not save my life, and could only have the

156 CARD DRAWING.

efFect of torturing her with the consciousness
of having assisted in the destroying it. Let
her never know it. What good vvould it do
me to be remembered by her as other than
she novv thinks rae ? Would it restore life to
my buried bones, or enable me to enjoy what I
have lost? It would not, therefore I willleaveit
to Providence to keep the question of my guilt
or innocence revealed or hidden as he pleases ;
doing only that which in justice and duty I
am bound to do, to remove the false impression
from the minds of my fellow-countrymen/'

While he revolved these things in his mind,
the door of the cell was opened, and the sheriflP,
attended by two officers and a clergyman, en-
tered. In spite of all the eiForts which he had
made to establish his resolution, so as to sup-
poit him firmly through this fatal moment,
Dorgan feit a cold thrill shooting through all
his limbs when it actually arrived, and it was
not without considerable difficulty that he
could so far coramand his heart as to under-

CARD DRAWING. 167

stand what the officer was saying to him.
However perfectly we may, to our own thought,
bend up our minds to the endurance of any
dreadful extremity, and however satisfied we
may be to abandon all expectation of avoidance
or escape — it is certain that, until the very in-
stant of its accomplishment has arrived, an
unacknowledged, unconscious hope will yet
continue lingering about the heart, the discom-
fiture of which (as it gives place at length to
black and absolute despair) is more terrific than
the very Separation of our two-fold existence
itself. Our unfortunate hero leaned heavily
on the clergyman while the death-warrant was
read over. The hand-cuffs were then Struck
off, as if for the purpose of mocking him with
a freedom which he never could enjoy ; and a
man, covered from head to foot in a thick
blanket, at sight of whom, Dorgan shuddered
to the very centre of his being, approached him
with a halter, on which the awful noose was
already formed, in his band. He lifted it, for

158 CARD DRAWING.

the purpose, as is usual, of suffering Dorgan
lo carry it to the place of execution ; but the
latter recoiled with horror at this apparently
unneedful cruelty.

" It must be done," said the sheriff, "put it
over his head."

" Remember heaven," said the clergyman —
"will you refuse to imitate its monarch? He
bore his cross to Calvary."

Nothing afFects the heart more deeply, at
a moment of this kind, than a sentiment of
religion. The tears suddenly rushed into
Dorgan's eyes, and bowing his head in si-
lence, he suffered the ignorainious badsre
to be laid on his neck without farther
question.

*' Why is the prisoner not dressed in the
gaol-clothes?" said the sherifF.

" There was no order given, sir," said the
gaoler, " an' I'm afeerd 'twould be late vvit \\z,
now."

" No matter," replied the sherifF, " it will

CARD DRAWING.

159

answer as it is. Let him die in the clothes in
which the deed was done."

Dorgan instantly raised his bead frorn its
drooping position, and looking calmlyand fix-
edly on the officer of the law, said : " Let me
die, sir, in the clothes which I wore while en-
gaged in the service of my country. Her uni-
form will never be disgraced by a death that is
not merited, although it be shamefuL"

" You persist then in declaring your inno-
cence?" asked the officer.

** I did not intend, sir, to have repeated what
I already said ; and that last word escaped nie
unawares, but since you put the question, jus-
tice compels me to give you an answer. I here
solemnly declare, in the presence of these men,
my accusers and my executioners, as well as
in the presence of that God before whose
throne I must shortly stand, that I am now
about to die the death of a murdered man.
Yes — ye are about to do a murder — and it is
more for your sakes than mine, that I bid you

160 CARD DRAWING.

take the warning. The day will come, sir,
when you will remember my words with sor-
row. I pray Heaven that you may have no hea-
vier feeling to strive against. You, father, were
one of the witnesses against me ; when the day
arrives, as it may before long, that shall make
my innocence appear — all I ask, sir, is — that
you will pause, and weigh the matter well with
yourself before you again throw in your hard
word against a poor fellow-creature's life.
Remember these words. I hope that my fate
will teach the gentlemen that have the lives of
the poor in their hands to proceed very cau-
tiously in future, before they take circum-
stances for certainty. I am ready to attend
you, Mr. Sheriff."

Two cars(in English, carts) were placed out-
side the gaol, in one of which Dorgan and th«
clergyman were placed, while the olher was
occupied by the blanketted personage above-
mentioned, who immediately secreted himself,
amid the shouts and groans of the populace.

CARD DRAWING. 161

under the straw which was placed in it for that
purpose. As the cars were about to move for-
ward, a vvoman passed through the guard, and
grasped the rail of that which contained Dor-
gan, who was deeply absorbed at the moment,
in the discourse which the clergyman directed
to him. One of the soldiers perceived, and
striking her on the Shoulder with the butt end
of his musket, bid her go back.

*' One word, sodger darlen — let me only
spake a word to the boy, an' I'U be ofF. Mr.
Dorgan ! Don't you hear, sir?"

Dorgan lifted up his eyes, and started
back with sudden terror, as he beheld the
Card-drawer, his evil prophet, looking into
his eyes, with her finger raised in the action
of beckoning or inviting his attention. The
clergyman also recognized her at the same
instant.

" Wretched impostor !" he exclaimed, ** how
dared you force your way hither? Is it not
enough that you mislead fools in their health.

162 CARD DRAWING.

but yoii must trouble the hope of the dying,
as yoii do novv?"

" No trouble in life, your reverence, only just
to spake one word to the boy. Mr. Dorgan,
there's one gay me a message to you, sir — to say
whisper hether "

" Remove tliat woman," said the sherifF —

*' I say, you mizzuz !" said a soldier, elbow-
ing her from the car.

" Only one word, sodger, dear darlen — "

" Remove her, I say ! — "

" One word — O darlen sodger, don't kill me
with the plundtherpush— Mr. Duke, keep up
your sperrits — for there's one that '11 "

The remainder of the speech (if it were ut-
tered) was unheard by the ears for which it was
intended, as the Speaker was forced back into
the centre of the noisy press, and the party
proceeded on their route.

The day was as dreary as the occasion. The
remark, so populär in Ireland, that there
never is an Assize week without rain, was

CARD DRAWING. 163

in this instance justified by a thick mizzle
which made the air duU and gloomy, and co-
vered the trees and herbage with a hoar and
dimly glittering moisture. There was no wind,
and the distant surface of the river, as they
passed in the direction of its mouth, was co-
vered by a mantle of gray and eddying mist,
through which the shadow of a dark and flag-
ging sail, or the naked masts of an anchoring
vessel, were at intervals visible. The crowd
which had accompanied the party to the out-
skirts of the city, dropped off gradually as they
proceeded into the country, until they were left
to prosecute theirdreary journey with no other
attendants than the few whose interest in the
prisoner's fate had induced them to come
from the coast for the purpose of witnessing
his trial.

It was late in the afternoon before they ar-
rived at Carrigaholt. As the cars were descend-
ing an eminence in the neighbourhood, Dorgan
cast his eyes towards the west, and beheld, on

164 CARD DRAWING.

the very spot vvhere he had parted with his
love before his departure to join his ship, and
where the sweetest hours of their first and de-
clared afFection had been past, the dreadful
engine erected, on which he was within an-
other hour to lose a life which, but a few days
before, he would not have given for that of a
purpled monaich. A great multitude of
people encompassed the spot, among whom
might be discerned the light blue dresses of
the fish-jolters from the coast; the lough and
half sailor-like persons of the fishermen; the
great coated, legginged, and comfortably ap-
pointed farmers from the interior ; nearly all of
those whom he beheld having been at one time
or another thepartakers of somehour of youtb-
fulenjoyment with the victim of the sacrifice,
in his days of careless boyhood. Seated on a
green bank, at two or three hundred paces dis-
tant from the gallo ws, were a group of persons,
comprising a soldier and two sailors, the same
who were witnesses to Dorgan's first landing.

CARD DRAWING. 165

during their watch at the sio-nal tower on the
evening of his arrival.

" I say,you land-lobsterthere,"said thehero
of the draught-board, " will you douce your
sky-tackle there and let us have a peep at the
fun. A messmate ! I 'd rather than agallooner
it had been a red jacket instead of true bliie.
You have the wind o' me there, Will."

'*l say, Jack!" the soldier replied, turning
his head round, ** you mind the Papist that
made the bull that night."

- Ay— ay— "

" There he 's over ; speaking to that elderly
lady with the pipe in her mouth."

** Eh ? Why, unreeve ray clue lines. Will,
if that an't the very lubber I met in the lar-
board field yonder, this morning, abaft the
tower. I '11 teil you now how it was — I saw
his pennant flying on the lee, and took him for
our Cook at the tower ; so 1 made sail — he
stood ofF— I gave chase — he tacked and stood
across the meadow — I squared my yards, out

166

CARD DRAWING.

studding-sails — sung out ' steady' — poured in
a broadside, and ran alongside to see my mis-
take just as he weathered the gap in the hedge.
* My eye/ says I, ' here's a go — I took you
for our Cook.' ' No, Sir/ says he, * Fm for
the hanging match, can you tow me on the
way ?' * To be sure I can/ says I — ' 'bout ship
and sheer ofF yonder; vvhen you come abaft
the water-mill — belay sheets and tacks and
stand off close to the wind's eye for the po-
tatoe field — then bear away for the bog — sing
out a-head, and if they won't open the gate,
'bout ship again ; loose your main sheet —
raake for the white cottage — gibe — and come
out upon the highway — crowd all your can-
vass, and run right a-head for the gallows."

*'Haw! haw! — And what did the Hirish
Roman Papist say to you ?"

" He stood with bis mouth open, gaping like
an empty scuttle butt. — The fellow never heard
English in bis life before. Oy say! You
Papist Paddy, you, come here and make us a

CARD DRAWING. 167

bull, and you shall have a glass o* grog when
I 'm purser."

The person whomhe addressed was standing
at a few paces distant, occupied with far other
and deeper thoughts than those which sug-
gested the holiday converse of the last
Speakers. His eye was fixed on the place of
execution, while he received some message
from an old and miserably attired woman,
which seemed to fill him with anxiety and
disappointment.

He turned on the sailor a ghastly and fearful
eye, but made no answer to his words.

" Never look so cloudy about it, messmate/'
the latter continued in an unmoved tone —
** Chcer up, man, the rope is not twisted for
your neck yet. Jack's alive ! who's for a row?
Never say die while there's a shot in the
locker. Whup !"

" It would become you, av you 're a Chris-
tian yourself, to conduct yourself wit more
feeling and more decency an the breath goen

168 CARD DRAWING.

to be taken out of a poor fellow-cratur," said
the woman.

"'He's some cousin of yours, mistress, by
the kindness you shew him."

" Ayeh, my dear," the Card-dravver retorted,
plucking the man*s blue jacket significantly —
'* 'tisn't my unyform he wears."

A shout of laughter burst from the sailor's
companions at this sally, as the cid woman
hastened off, audibly humming over a stanza
of the populär bailad,

"An' as for sailors I don't admire them —

I wouldn't live as a sailor's bride,
For in their coorten they 're still discoorsen

Of tbings consarnen the ocean wide."

While the countryman, who had shewn such
marks of intense interest in the scene, disap-
peared amid the crowd that surrounded the
place of execution.

The car had already halted at the foot of
the fatal tree, and Dorgan, his limbs stifFfrom
the maintenance of the same position during

CARD DRAWING. 169

the long journey, was ordered to stand erect.
He opened his eyes heavily, and gazed around
on the multitude of faces that were turned
towards his— he looked on the fields and
meadows in which his childhood had been
passed, and feit his heart almost break with
the long farewell which it sent forth in a sigh,
that

" — seemed to shatter all his bulk.
And end his being — "

The awful preparations were already com-
pleted — Dorgan's hands were pinioned — the
dreadful knot affixed — and the whole scene,
the hüls and cottages and buzzing multitude,
swara and reeled before his eyes — when the
ghost-like person in the blanket approached
and uncovering from beneath his woollen
envelope a bony and muscular hand, ex-
tended it to our hero, saying at the same
time,

** Therom-a-lauv a gra hawn.^ Forgive an*

* Give me the hand, my white darling,
VOL. I. I

170 CARD DRAWING.

forget. Sorrow better boy ever I see die in
his shoes. Say you won't be haanten me for
this — it's only my juty."

Dorgan, half-stupified, gave him hiß band
iii token of forgiveness, and at the same in-
stant feit the death-cap pulled over his eyes,
while the command to " draw away the car"
sounded in his ears.

" Hold !" cried the clergyman to the owner
of the vehicle, who with niuch simplicity had
taken the collar and was about to lead the
horse away, not considering that by so doing
he would in fact be the executioner of the
convict. — *' Let the man who is engaged for the
purpose be the shedder of the forfeited blood,"
continued his Reverence. " Do not moye the
horse."

*'A' thßn youT reverince might ju«t let
niatters go on as they were," said the finisher
of the law. '' It's all one to the boy who does
that Job for him."

The pause saved Dorgan's lifo. At the

CARD DRAWING. 171

raoraent when the hangman was about to lay
bis fingers on the collar, the crowd near him
separated with much noise and confusion, and
a man darting through the passage and through
the file of soldiers, seized the rüde bridle, and
striking the executioner so as to make him
reel and stagger a few paces, cried out in a
hoarse and loud voice, " Come down, Mr.
Dorgan, come down ofF o' the car — Let him
go, Mr. SherifF, dear, for the man is here that
did the deed."

The sherifF, in the midst of the confusion
that prevailed, imagining that a resjcue was
about to be attempted, had cocked a pistol
and placed it to the head of his prisoner. He
now suflfered the muzzle to fall, and gazed in
astonishment on Kinchela, who stood, pale,
trembling, and listless, at the horse's head.
The truth flashed on the clergyman's mind, as
he recognized in Pryce the same individual
who sat with Dorgan in the parlour of the
Bee-hive on the evening before the murder.

172 CARD DRAWING.

He suggested to the sherifF the propriety of
inquiry.

'* It may be a cheat," said the officer, " and

if so, how dreadfully cruel will be the disap-

pointmentto the prisoner after this suspense."

" Let the man be summoned hither and

questioned at once," said the priest.

Kinchela was called accordingly, but he
was unable, for a long time, to answer, or even
to comprehend the questions that were put to
him. The excess of his terror had deprived
him for the moment of all consciousness : he
saw a thousand faces flitting about him, and
heard a thousand voices at his ear, but was
totally incapable of appreciating their meaning
or their wishes. The sight of Dorgan, still
pinioned and blindfolded in the car, at length
Startled him from his Stupor; he suddenly
extended his arms, and repeated with great
violence, "Come down, again, I teil you,
Dorgan ! Mr. SherifF, let go Mr. Dorgan, for
he's innocent. I am the man that done it."

CARD DRAWING. 17

"Thatdidwhat?''

**That murdered old McLoughlen!" Kin-
chela exclaimed with a gesture of deep horror,
** an here Vm come to answer for it now."

" If the man should be a maniac," said the
sheriff.

"Oh, I wisht to the heavens I was!" Kin
chela exclaimed. '* No — no — I was mad when
I done it, it's in my sober senses I come to
declare it. Let Mr. Dorgan loose, an tie me
up in his place, an heavens bless you an don*t
keep me long in pain, for I hear hangen is a
fearful death."

After some consultation, the sherifF agreed
to take upon him all the responsibility of
delay ; the unhappy Dorgan was unbound and
removed from the car. He looked drearily
around him, and leaned on the clergyman for
Support, while the change in his fortunes was
communicated to him by the sherifF.

" In the middle o* the night that same
time," said Kinchela, in answer to the in-

174 CARD DRAWING.

quiries which were made respectlng the man-
ner of the occurrence, ** I made my way into
Dorgan's room, an I took his clothes that
wor lyen on the chair, an I dressed myself in
'era, an in them I did the murder. I don't
know what made me teil it, but my conscience
was killen o* me intirely. Mr. Dorgan, I have
only one word to say to you before we part.
My poor old mother, that — " the word stuck
in his throat, and he coiild only look his
meaning through his tears.

"' Never fear for her,'* said Dorgan, " she
shall be provided for. Oh, Pryce, I little
thought — Well, there's no use in talking about
it now."

The sherifF now gave orders to take Kin-
chela into custody, detaining Dorgan at the
same time und er arrest, until his sentence
should be rescinded according to the usual
form. The crowd separated in great confusion.

It now became a point of consideration with
her friends to devise the most easy method

CARD DRAWING. 175

of breaking the joyous intelligence of her
lover's iiinocence and liberation to Pennie Mc
Loughlen. Although the mode of her life and
education exempted her in general from the
danger which might be apprehended in such
cases to a person of more refined habits or a
more nervous Constitution ; yet it was conjec-
tured with much truth and sagacity, that the
repetition of so many dreadful shocks within
so short a space of time, could not fail to be
injurious in its Operation on a mind not alto-
gether destitute of sensibility. If the reader
have curiosity or good feeling enough to in-
duce him to entertain an interest in the con-
trivances of their rustic wits on this occasion,
we will venture to prolong the narrative to its
real consummation, the reconciliatiön of the
lovers,

Pennie had removed immediately after the
day on which her father's funeral took place,
to the house of a relative — a " dalemg woman,"
in the village of Carrigaholt. A few days after

176 CARD DRAWING.

Dorgan's formal pardon had been obtained,
his fair accuser being yet in ignorance of all
the events which succeeded the trial ; she was
seated in a small clean room, called a parlour,
inside the shop, in which her relative appeared,
bustling about in all the conscious satisfaction
and importance of a thriving huxter among her
closely packed assortment of haberdashery,
reaping hooks, penknives, notation-books,
reading-made-easys, snufF and tobacco, flax
seed, prayer-books, halters, waistcoat-patterns,
plates, dishes, of the most flaming colours,
with a small stock of grocery, and in short,
every description of merchandize which might
by any possible contingency become needful
to the comfort of the good folks in her neigh-
bourhood. The door of the little parlour was
left a-jar, so that our heroine, while occupied
in her usual duty of instructing her infant
cousin in her rudimental lessons, could hear
all that passed without. A snug-looking
farmer was bargaining at one side of the shop.

CARD DRAWING. 177

for a new " Poor Man's Manual/'while hiswife,
a quiet, elderly woman, neatly attired in a
scarlet rüg cloak (a favourite article of dress
among the fair ones of the coast), and a deeent
snow white hankerchief simply tied in matron
fashion over her head, was tuming over some
pieces of gingham in an opposite corner.

*' Sixpence !" the Dinmont of Cläre ex-
claimed in a tone of expression of strong sur-
prise, while by a jerk of the frame he tossed
his heavy great coat higher on his Shoulders,
as if preparing at once to depart. " No —
Mrs. Rahilly — take four-pence for the book,
an' here 'tis for you."

" I never bought it for the raoney," said
Mrs. Rahilly, replacing the book on the shelf.

" Well — what'ß your lowest ofFer then ? — I
don't like, as we're ould friends, to lave the
money any where eise, though I protest to my
conshins, Davy Molony below sthreet ofFered
me the same book for four-pence ha'p'ny."

Mrs. Rahilly paused. " Well then — bein as
I 2

178 CARD DRAWING.

you say, an ould cushtomer — split the defFer-
ence, an' say no more about it."

" That I may be blest af I do, now. Here's
four-pence ha'p'ny, an' I never '11 go back o'
what I say."

'^Have it for the fi'-penny."

" Oh, ax wool of a goat — what talk it

IS

I"

" Well, may be herseif would want another."

" O never heed me," said the woman, smil-
ing and laying down the pattern of gingham,
" af it's prayer-books you're talken of, I can
say my rosary on me fingirs."

" You are attending to those people in the
shop, iustead of minding your task," said
Pennie, chiding her little pupil. " Keep your
eyes on the book now. Read on. ' Thirty
days— ' "

The child read, in a high singing tone, the
lesson from her marble-covered notation-book,
** Thirty days hath September, April, June an'
November, &c." On a sudden she paused,

CARD DRAWING, 179

and looking into her cousin's face, said,
" Pennie, are you goen to die?**

The young maiden startedatthe suddenness
of the question, and then looking fixedly in
surprise on the child, said, " Why do you ask
such a question as that, honey?"

*' Becase Patcy Magrarth, he toult me that
his mammy said you wor, an' that she seen it
by you, for you wor growen thinner an' thinner
an' paler aa' paler every day, an' that you'd
die before long an' be buried like uncle."

" I hope not," said the poor girl, smiling
rather anxiously.

" I hope not aither — for what 'ud I do at all
then? I wouldn't have any body to tache me
my kssons or do a haiporth. Aunt Rahilly
does n't know B from a buU's foot, although
she pretends to a dale. I know what Pll do
af you die, I'U marry Patcy Magrath, for he's
a fine Scholar — that 's when we're bigenough —
an' he '11 larn me— but what '11 I do tili then?"

" Mind your tasks, and do as you are bid.

180 CARD DRAWING.

honey, and say your prayers regularly, and
God will be a father, and uncle, and cousin
and all to you. You need fear nothing so
long as you do not displease him."

"That's just the way the man with all the
wool about bis head talked to me in the coort-
house, when I toult upon Dorgan for murdheren

Uncle Whät ails you now, Pennie ? I

can 't say a haiporth to you ever since uncle
was kilt but you begin to screech an' cry that
way. Are you sick ? Because if you are,
I'll go an' get a physic o' salts from Aunt
Rahilly. She has a tub o' salts abroad that
would eure the world."

At this moment, the sound of Dorgan's
name, pronounced by a voice that was familiär
to her, in the shop, Struck on the eider
maiden's ear, and prevented her reply. She
put the child from her with a sudden " hushf'
and remained in an attitude of the most
anxious attention, with her ear turned towards
the half open door.

CARD DRAWING. 181

" I wonder who is it that's minden the people
in the shop now,'* said the child. — "Well,
Pennie, af you won 't hear me my lesson, I '11
go and play tig-touch-iron wit Patcy Magrath
in the haggard, an' I '11 have it for you agen
supper."

She slipped out of the house through a back
door, leaving Pennie too perfectly absorbed in
the conversation, which was now passing in
the shop, to answer or even to notice her de-
parture.

"An is it now they're thinken o' throwen^
a doubt upon his guilt?" said the farmer.
"Here — take a pinch, Sir, while the box is
open. The little dust o' snufFI had isn't much
the better o' you since you took ihQ.t dhudhogue^
out of it, any way. But as for Dorgan, why
I seen the guard goen to the gallows with him
meself, though I couldn't stop to see the
hangen."

" That may I e compatible with the limits

• Pinch.

182 CARD DRAWING.

o* veracity/' said the person who had just
entered — ** but it is an undeniable fact, that
Dorgan has been approved innocent— and
Kinchela, the fisherman from the Head, has
come forth and prosecuted bis confession
before the raagistrate as the real perpe-
traathur."

The conversation was here cut short by a
deep groan, and a sound, as of a heavy
weight descending, in the inner parlour. The
plan which had been constructed for breaking
the matter to Pennie was completely baffled
by the awkwardness of the well-meaning pe-
dant, who blurted out that part of his intelli-
gence which comprised the most horrible in-
ference in the very commencement. She had
scarcely heard it uttered, when her senses
failed her, and she sunk on the floor in a strong
convulsion fit. When the exertions of her
friends, who at once hastened to her assistance,
had recalled her to some degree of conscious-
ness, she beheld, among the many faces which

CARD DRAWING. 183

surrounded her, those of the clergyman of her
parish before-mentioned, and the unfortunate
agent of the discovery she had made. The
former, having ascertained the degree of
strength which might now be expected from
her, motioned every person out of the room,
with the exception of her relative. He then
took Pennie*s hand kindly.

*• Are you prepared," he said, " to thank
your God for a more pleasing piece of news
than that which you have just heard ?"

The girl looked in his face wilh a gaze of
bewildered inquiry. Her lips muttered, as if
unconsciously, the word *' Dorgan,'^ as the
thought which floated uppermost in her imagi-
nation.

" Read there,'' said the elergyman, putting
into her hands a letter, folded.

The blood rushed forcibly to her cheek, brow,
and her very finger-ends, and again recoiled,
so as to leave her pale as marble, when she
recognized the hand of Dorgan in the super-

184 CARD DRAWING.

scription. She quickly opened the note, and
read as foUows :

My Dear Pennie,

(For I may once more witli a free
lieart, thanks be to the Most High, call you by
that name), It has pleased Heaven to make
good the Word which I spoke on that unfor-
tunate day, when I told my judges that I feit
it within me that I should not die for a deed
of which, the Lord knows my heart, and which
is since proved, I was wholly clear and inno-
cent. I have got my pardon — for it seems it
is a form of law, that when an innocent man is
convicted, after siifFering imprisonment, and
all hardship, and anxiety, instead of his judges
asking his forgiveness, 'tis he that has to get
pardon from them, for being so misfortunate
as to be condemned and very nearly hung in
the wrong. Now, Pennie, this comes by the
band of Father Mahony, to teil you, that of
all things in the world, I admire and love you

CARD DRAWING. 185

for your conduct on tbat day, and all through
this dreadful business. I know well, my dear
girl, how your heart is accusing you at this
moment, but give no heed to such thoughts, I
beg of you, and let them be as far from your
mind as they are from mine, for you did your
duty nobly ; and Lord Nelson, my glorious
and lamented Commander, who little thought
rd be brought into such trouble on account of
the victory he died in obtaining, could have
done no moreif he was in your place. I hope,
therefore, you will shew your good sense, and
think no more of what is past, but take this as
the true feeling of his heart from him who is
yours until death.

Duke Dorgan.

To Penelope Mc Loughlen,
at Mrs. Rahilly's Shop, Carrigaliolt.

The heroic generosity with which her lover
thus rose superior to all the petty resentments
and jealousies, which are incidental to the
passion, even in the most vigorous and straight-

186 CARD DRAWINGk

forward minds, suiik deeply into the heart of
the young woman. Although the love which
she feit for Dorgan was of that genuine and
unafFected kind, which is wholly a stranger to
the delicate intricacies and refined diflSculties
which are attendant on the progress of this
most capricious of afFections, in the bosoms
of those who boast a higher rank than hers,
yet she could not but be keenly sensible that
she had failed in one of its most essential
qualities — an unbounded and iramoveable con-
fidence. She raised her eyes, which were
overflowing with tears of mingled shame and
gratitude, towards the clergyman, when a
creaking noise at the door attracted her atten-
tion. It opened — and Dorgan entered. Her
agitation and confusion became now extreme,
nor were they diminished when her lover ad-
vanced to her side with a respectful gentleness,
and Said,

" Pennie, you see we meet happier and
sooner than we expected. I hope you'll be

CARD DRAWING. 187

Said by what I mentioned to you in the letter,
and give me your band now in token tbat all
is forgotten."

" I give you my band freely, Dorgan/' the
girl replied, still blushing deeply, " and bless
your good, generous beart — but all cannot be
forgotten. I may be friends with you again —
but I never can be friends witb myself as long
as ever I live. Tbere is a load now laid upon
my mind tbat never will be taken off until the
day I die."

Dorgan, assisted by bis reverend friend,
applied himself, and as it proved, not unsuc-
cessfuUy, to combat this feeling ; after which
the latter departed, baving seized the opportu-
nity of impressing on botb the obligations
whicb they owed to Providence for the turn
which their fortunes had taken.

The iraagination of the reader may be safely
trusted with the details of the ensuing days;
the penitence of Kinchela, and the distraction
of bis aged mother, who could scarcely be

188 CARD DRAWING.

persuaded, even by his own assertion, that
the son, wliom she had found so faultless,
could thus suddenly break upon her know-
ledge in a character so new and hideous.
Dorgan took care, on his establishment in his
native village, to fulfil the promise which he
had made to Kinchela.

About a year after this, the handsome Mrs.
Dorgan was sitting at the door of her barn,
superintending a number of girls who were
employed in scutching flax in the interior,
when her eye was attracted by an old woman,
who raised the hatch of the farm-yard gate,
and, making a low courtesy, said, " You
wouldn*t have any kid-skins, rabbit-skins, or
goose-quills to seil, ma'am?''

Mrs. Dorgan coloured to the very border of
her rieh tresses when she recognized, and was
recognized in turn by the Card-drawer.

" Well, darlen, didn't it corae true what I
toult you that mornen behind the Stacks?" she
asked, with a knowing wink.

CARD DRAWING.

189

" It did; but I have learned to know since,
that it was more by your good luck than your
skill, that you hit the mark so cleverly. You
Said that himself was far away at the time too,
and he was close at our side."

" A* then sure he ought to have more sense
than to trust me — a man that spoke like a
priest, they teil me, before the crowner. But
all that is over with me now ; for sure I paid
Father Mahony better than five pounds resti-
tution-money, no longer ago than istherday, an
Vm to be tuk into the pale of his flock agen,
wit a trifle more honestly made wit hare-skins,
an writen-quills, an one thing or another that
way — an Fm to live quietly, an to have nothen
more to say to the Card Drawing/'

END OF CARD DRAWING

THE HALF SIR,

SONNETS— INTRODUCTORY.
I.

Glens of the west ! the days are past and done,

Since, while the north wind howled amidst your bowers,
And, hurrying through his course of frequent showers,

Sped, pale, mid winter mists, the southern sun ;

When the vext Shannon, rid by ruffian gales

That whipped his foaming sides with tireless band,
Shook his white inane along the darkening Strand,

And bounded fiercely by the leafless vales 5

Since — when our turfen fire made glad the hearth,
And shone on merry faces, gatbered near
With untaught song, light jest, and drowsy story —

We blessed the wintry eve, with gentle mirth —
Or in soft sorrow lent a pensive ear,
To tales of Erin's eider strength and faded glory.

II.

Ambition, absence, death, have thinned the number
Of those who met beside your evening fires;
Some, gatbered to the ashes of our sires,

On yonder sacred mount in silence slumber :

Some, scattered far, extend their longing hands

Towards those loved shades, and lonely walks in vain,
For never shall your sun behold again

Their early foot-prints on your dewy lands —

And never ntiore within that ruined gate,

Shall their blitbe voices cheer the hush'd domain —
Yet some are left to pace your dreary ways,

Some cherished friends, in whose sweet circle late,
Old joys came hovering round my heart again —
Faint echoes of the bliss we knew in early days.

VOL 1. K

THE HALF SIR.

CHAPTER I.

A gentleman tliat loves uo noise. — The Silent Woman.

The Wren-boys of Shanagolden, a small vil-
lage in the south-west of Ireland, were all as-
sembled pursuant to custom on the green
before the chapel-door, on a fine frosty morn-
ing, being the twenty-sixth of December, or
Saint Stephen's day — a festival yet held in
much reverence in Munster, although the
Catholic church has for many years ceased
to look upon it as a holiday of "Obligation."*'

* A holiday rendering it obligatory on all tLe members of the
church to hear mass and refrain from servile work.

196 THE HALF SIR.

Seven or eight handsome young fellows, tricked
out in ribands of the gayest colours,white waist-
coatsandstockings,andfurnishedwith musical
instruments of various kinds — a fife, a pipolo,
an old drum, a cracked fiddle, and a set of
bagpipes — assumed their place in the rear of
the procession,and startled the yet slumbering
inhabitants of the neighbouring houses, by a
fearfully discordant prelude. Behind those
came the Wren-boy, par excelknce, a lad who
bore in his hands a hoUy-bush, the leaves of
v\hich were interwoven with long streamers of
red, yellow, blue, and white riband ; all which
finery, nevertheless, in no way contributed to
reconcile the little mottled tenant of the bower
(a wren which was tied by the leg to one of
the boughs) to his state of durance. After
the Wren-boy came a promiscuous crowd of
youngsters, of all ages under fifteen, com-
posing just such a little ragged rabble as one
observes attending the band of a marching
regiment on its entrance into a country town.

THE HALF SIR. 197

shouting, hallooing, laughing, and joining in
apt chorus with the droning, shrilling, squeak-
ing, and rattling of the musicians of the
morn.

After proceeding along the road for about
half a mile, the little rustic procession turned
aside into a decent avenue, which led, in the
antique fashion (that is to say, by a line so
direct, that if you rested a musket on the lock
of the gate, you could put a bullet in the very
centre pannel of the hall-door), to a house no
less quaint in its form than its approach — a
Square built pile, standing holt upright on the
top of a hillock, with a piain, rough-cast front,
in which were two rows of small, square Win-
dows, and a hall-door with two steps leading
up to it — presenting, in short, such a fa§ade as
children are accustomed to cut out of paper —
so flat, so regulär, so dull, and quakerly. A
line of soldier-like looking elms ran along the
avenue-wall on either side, and filed ofF with
the most unexceptionable precision to the

198 THE HALF SIR.

rearof the building, taking the kitchen-garden
in flank, and falling into a hollow Square
about the paddock and haggart,

Before the hall-door was a semi-circular
gravel plot, in which the avenue lost itself, as
a canal terminates in its basin. Around this
Space the procession formed, and the Wren-
boy, elevating his bush, gave out the opening
stave of the festive chaimt, in which the
whole rout presently joined :

" The Wran! the Wran! the hing of all birds,

St. Stephen's day was caitght in the furze ;

Although he's Utile, hisfamily's great,

Get itp,fair ladics ! und give us a träte !

And ifyour träte he ofthe best,

In heaven we hope your soul will rest!"

As the din of the chorus died away, one of
the lower windows was thrown up, and two of
the ** fair ladies" appealed to, presented them-
selves to the praises and blessings of the ad-
miring rustics. One of them could scarcely
have justified the epithet — she was of a dark-
brown complexion, and a slight shadowing

THE HALF SIR. 199

across the forehead would have led a person
not disposed to argue favourably of the indi-
cation, to suppose that she had already de-
clined, and yet not much, into the vale of
years. Thirty or two-and-thirty might have
brought the change. There was, moreover, a
proud, fiery lustre in her eye which would ac-
count perhaps for many of the invidious lines.
The smile, nevertheless, which she instantly
accorded to the villagers, shewed that her
pride was not the defect of her heart or dis-
position, but the accidentof a conscious supe-
riority either of rank or of mind. Her compa-
nion was a pretty, lively girl, with health on
her cheeks, and mirth and laughter in her eye
— and nothing more.

"Which o' the two is Miss O'Brien?''
asked one of the mummers in a whisper of his
companion.

"Can't you know the real lady?" was the
reply. " Don't you see it in her eye, and in
her smile. There she is — the dark one."

200 THE HALF SIR.

" Come, plase your honour, ladies, ordhei
soomthen out to the Wran. He come a long
way to See ye'r honours this morning. Long
life to you, Mister Falahee ! The Wran thanks
you, Sir/' as a half-crown, flung by an elderly
gentleman, who made his appearance at the
Windows, jingled on the gravel-walk. *'And
sonuher^ to you, Miss Mary, and that before
the frost is ofF the ground ; we are goen to call
on Mister Charles himself next."

The younger of the ladies blushed deep
crimson.

** Stay until Davy gives you a drink, lads/'
Said Mr. Falahee.

A new uproar of thanks, and "long lives !'*
and sundry other benedictions, followed this
invitation, in the midst of which old Davy
made his appearance at the hall-door with a
tin-can füll of eider of his own brewage, and a
smile on his wrinkled face, that shewed with
how much good will he feil into the hospitable

* Good spouse.

THE HALF SIR. 201

humour of bis master. The lads swarmed
aboul him as flies do about a lump of
sugar.

" Have you been at Mr. Hamond's yet,
lads?" inquired Mr. Falahee.

"Aw! not we, Sir. It 's always the way
with the Wraii to pay his compliments to the
real gentlemen first."

" Why — '* Said the worthy but flattered
host, with an ill-suppressed smile, *' Is not
Mr. Hamond a real gentleman?"

" No, plase your honour, not a real, un-
doubted gentleman, that way, all out."

*' Vm sure Castle Hamond is as fine a pro-
perty as there is in the barony.'*

" O we don't meari to dispute that, sir,
But himself, you see, he 's nothing. What is
he but a bit of a half sir ?"

" A what?'* exclaimed the eider lady.

"A half sir, ma'am;" turning toward hei*
with great respect, and giving his forelock a
drag which seemed to signify that had he got
K 2

202 THE HALF SIR.

such a tliing as a bat on, he would have taken
it offto her honour.

" What do you call a half sir?"

" A man that has not got any blood in him,
ma'am."

" A man that has got no blood in him 1"

'* Noan ; any more than meself. A sort of
a small gentleman, that way ; the singlings of a
gentleman,*= as it were. A raade man — not a
born gentleman. Not great, all out, nor poor,
that way, intirely. Betuxt and betune, as you
may say. Neither good pot-ale, nor yet
strong whiskey. Neither beef nor vale.
Castle Hamond ! What 's Castle Hamond to
me, as long as the master would'nt conduct
himself proper! A man that would'nt go to a
hunt, nor a race-coorse, nor a cock-fight, nor
a huilen-match, nor a dance, nor a fencen-bout,
nor any one born thing. Sure that 's no gen-
tleman! A man that gives no parties, nor was

* The sivglings are the first running of spirits in the proces»
of distillation,

THE HALF SIR. 203

neveT known yet to be drunk in his own
house. O poh ! — A man that was never seen
to put his hand in his pocket on a frosty mor-
nen and say to a poor man, ' Hoy, hoy ! my
good fellow, here's a tinpinny for you, and
get a drop o' somethen warm and corafortable
agen the day ! A man that was never be any
mains overtaken in liquor himself, nor the cause
©f anybody eise being so, either. Sure such
a man as that has no heart V

*' Teil me, my good lad,'' said the lady,
with much seriousness, " is this Mr. Hamond,
a miser?"

*' O dear, no, ma'am," exclaimed his ac-
cuser, *' nobody has anything to Charge agen
him on that score, Pm sure."

" Does he ever assist the poor in his neigh-
bourhood?"

** Indeed that he does ; there's no gainsay-
ing that any way."

*' Is he ever found in the cottages of the
sick and the distressed ?"

204 THE HALF SIR.

*' There's no doubt o' that. He is indeed.
The time the faver was ragen there last sum-
mer, he was like a priest or a doctor, goen
about from bedside to bedside, ordering wine
here, and blankets there, and paying for every
thing out of his own purse. I declare ma'am,"
the Speaker continued, warming with his sub-
ject so as totally to forget his late invective,
** 'twould be an admiration to you to know
the sighth o' money he laid out in that way."

" And teil me, did the racing, and cock-
fighting, and hunting gentlemen do a great
deal more ? The real gentlemen I mean."

*' Is it they? no — nor half as much, the
vvhole put together."

" But Mr. Hamond has no heart for all
that?''

" O,— eh? — heart ? — " the man repeated in a
puzzled tone. '* He has relligion, ma'am — relli-
gion and charity— that's what he has."

*' Then whatyow mean by 'heart,' is, I sup-
pose, drunkenness, prodigality, gambling — all,

THE HALF SIR. 205

in short, that is opposed lo religion and cba-
rity?"

" Why then — " after a pause, '' heaven for-
give uz, I b'lieve that*s the manen we put
upon it."

" And Mr. Hamond has none of that V*

" No, indeed, ma'am/'

" I'm satisfied," said the Lady, retiringfrom
the window, and leaving the young man a-gape
to comprehend her meaning.

In a few minutes the whole procession was
again in motion, drumming, squeaking, shout-
ing and laughing down the avenue. After
they had fairly seen them ofF, Mr. Falahee and
his daughter returned to the breakfast table.

** Ho ! ho ! where is Miss O'Brien gone ?"
said the old gentleman.

" l declare, I don't know," said an old
grandmama, who sat in an arm-chair by the
fire-side, '' she oniy took one cup of coffee, and
there is her spoon in her saucer — so she wasn't
done."

206 THE HALF SIR.

" Has any body done any thing to offend
her to-dayT said Mr. Falahee, laying an em-
phasis on the word, as if the taking offence
were a matter of not unfrequent occurrence.

*' I — Vm sure not I, at any rate," said Miss
Falahee ; '* I dont know what to make of her.
May be 'twas something the wren-boy said."

" Best send to her," said the old gentle-
man. " Nelly, go and see what keeps your
mistress.'*

In a few minutes Nelly returned. Her
mistress had done breakfast, and was prepar-
ing to ride out. She wished to know whether
Mr. Falahee would accompany her in the
direction of which they had been speaking
the day before.

" Oh, certainly," was Mr. Falahee's reply —
** unless she is afraid of meeting the Boody-
man'* of the Hills, for our road lies by Castle-
Hamond. He'd eat us up in one bit for being
of real gentlemanly race, I suppose \ or having

* Analogous to Green-sleeves in England.

THE HALF SIR. 207

blood in our veins, as Terry Lenigan says.
They say he hates anybody that has got a
decent coat on his back, and detests any
finery — especially in the fair sex/' he added,
glancing satirically at the gold chain and cross
which encircled the neck of his daughter, ** as
much as sin itself."

" More, may be, papa/' minced out Miss
Falahee — '' he's a great, rüde, good-for-nothing
fellow, ril engage.''

*' You'd engage what would be very wrong,
my dear," said her father. " Mr. Lynch, who
is his clergyman as well as ours, assures me
that a more charitable, meek-tempered, reli-
gious, excellent man does not exist within the
precincts of his parish ; and that his single
infirmity which appears to have been occa-
sioned by some dreadful misfortune in early
life, is solely the defect of his brain ; and
that, moreover, it is the constant object of all
his exertions to acquire a conquest over him«
seif in this respect. You heard what Terry

208 THE HALF SlR.

Lenigan himself said about bis conduct to tbe
poor in bis neigbbourbood, during tbe fever
tbat raged last summer."

Miss Falabee's reply was cut sbort by tbe
appearance of a dasbing young borseman be-
fore tbe Windows. He curbed in tbe animal
gracefully, as be came on tbe gravel-plot —
made a flourisbing salute witb bis bazel switcb,
as be passed tbe window at a pretty, mincing
trot, and finally dismounted at tbe ball door.

** Tbere goes another real gentleman," said
Mr. Falabee ; *' tbe wren-boys were mistaken
in supposing tbey sbould find Mr. Cbarles at
bome. Come, prepare your smiles and your
graces now, Mary."

" For sbame, papa — you make one blush
so ! I wisb you'd speak to bim, gran'ma."'

The door was opened before tbe old
dowager could bave complied, and in walked
a tall, sbarp-faced, long-nosed, foolisb-band-
some young man, looking like a preserved
London street-dandy, of tbe third or fourtb

THE HALF SIR. 209

year preceding, and carrying the similitude
into his manner and accent ; which last was
a Strange Compound of the coarsest Munster
brogue, and the most oriental cockney dialect —
the latter being superadded during a residence
of a few years at the house of a friend who
possessed a wharf somewhere between the
Minories and Wapping. All this, however,
passed for the purest Attic among many of
his home friends, and was very instru-
mental in gaining him the heart of the simple
young maiden who now rose with all the
pretty, panting, palpitating eagerness of un-
bounded admiration, to receive him.

'* Haw ! how aw ye, Mistaw Falahee ? How
d' do, maum ? Haw, Mary," he added, extend-
ing his band to his timid, shrinking, and smil-
ing love, with an air of patronage and en-
couragement, and twice shaking the tips of
her fair fingers, " how d' do, my garl ? Be
sated, pray." Then throwing himself into an
easy chair, extending his legs to their furthest

210

THE HALF SIR.

limit on the carpet, pulling up his peaked and
polished shirt-collar, to the imminent danger
of the tip of his nose, smoothing down his
lofty black silk stock, and whisking some dust
from the lappel of his green quaker-cut coat
with the fingers of his glove — *' A foine,
smawt mawnen, Mistaw Falahee," he pro-
ceeded, *' I just called in to ask if you were
all aloive here."

'* Going to course, I suppose ?"

'* Whoy, yes — oy b'lieve — though the
ground is rawther hawd— No mattaw !" switch-
ing his boots, and in the action drawing the
rod within an inch of Mary's bliie eyes. " Oy'U
go aisy enough. I'm cocked.'*

*' Cocked or no, Charles, I wish you would
stay with us to-day. I have a greatdeal to do
— and Miss O'Brien wants some person to
squire her about."

The Ion«: countenance of Mr. Charles Lane
became still longer at this request ; for, by
some unaccountable means this worthy lady

THE HALF SIR. 211

had acquired a stränge and disagreeable
influence over him — the influenae which all
persons of real rank and elegance, at all times,
possess over the vulgär pretender to fashion.
The young dandy Munsterman found that a
spell was cast upon him the moment he
entered Miss O'Brien's presence. His '' aws"
and his assurance invariably failed him. He
spoke little — kept his legs in — buttoned up his
side-pockets — stole the flaming yellow silk
handkerchief out of sight — and, in a word,kept
the dandy as much in the back-ground as
possible. In vain did he make many stre-
nuous efFoits to shake ofF this secret yoke
which the good lady had, quite unconsciously,
cast upon him ; his struggles (like those of
his country) served only to make him feel the
weight of his fetlers the more severely. In
vain did he loll in his chair, pass his fingers
about his long and curling hair, and endea-
vourto swagger himself into a degiee of ease
andconfidence — a single glance sufficed to re-

212 THE HALF SIK.

call him to a still more confused sense of in-
feriority and mental servitude. — In vain did
he, when alone, pish ! and pooh ! at the
wrinkled old maid, as in the malice of his
heart he rather unjustly termed her. — In vain
did the lady herseif (whenever, indeed she
thought of the gentleman at all) endeavour by
the most winning sweetness and kindness of
manner to place him on good terms with him-
seif— nothing could overcome his awe and his
dislike. — What puzzled and surprised him a
great deal, moreover, was, that Mary, who
stood quite as much in awe of him as he did
of Miss O'Brien, was always perfectly easy
and self-possessed in the presence of that for-
midable lady; so much so, as frequently to
fail in the respect which was certainly diie
from the one to the other.

Notwithstanding all this consciousness, how-
ever, and although Mr. Lane felthimself never
so uncomfortable as when he was in the pre-
sence of Miss 0'Brien,an odd kind of infatua-

THE HALF SIR. 21o

tion made him constantly seek opportunities to
throw himself in her way, always promising
himself (what every day's experience told him
was not to be fulfilled), that he would find
some means or other of impressing her with
the conviction that he was her " equal." Every
attention, in consequence, which she conde-
scended to shew him (utterly ignorant, in the
simple singleness of her good heart, of the
queer kind of civil war she occasioned in his
breast), while itconfused and abashed him,did
not fail to flatter his vanity ; and now, al-
though the tremendous proposition of riding
out actually alone with the great personage at
first Startled and alarmed him, itwas not diffi-
cult to prevail on him to sacrifice the day's
hunting to this opportunity of displaying him-
self under so many advantages (for he was
the best horseman in the country) to the eyes
of a person,whose approbation appeared to be
of more conseqiience to him than that ofthe
whole World besides.

214 THE HALF SIR.

He assented, therefore, to Mr. Falahee's ar-
rangement; and thrusting his gloveö and the
handle of his whip into his hat, took his seat
in a more permanent form by the blazing fire,
and commenced playing at hot-hands with
Mary, until Miss O'Brien should be ready to
set out.

We will leave the happy pair in the enjoy-
ment of their intellectual pastime, and follow
the Wren-boys, who, havingby this time been
made somewhat merry by the good treatment
they had received at the houses of several
other gentlemen, are likely to furnish us with
a greater fund of adventure.

They had by this time arrived at an avenue
gate, which, from the wildness and singularity
of its Situation, appeared to constitute the
approach of one of the older and more secluded
seats wliich were used by the gentry of the
eountry. The entrance consisted of two mas-
sive cut stone piers, surmounted by a pair
of battered eagles, and supporting a heavy

THE HALF SIR. 215

wooden gate, which was simply fastened in the
centre by a loop of hay rope tied to one jamb
and thrown over the other. The avenue, which
was so overgrowii with grass, brambles, and
dog-fennel as to leave little more than the
footpath visible in the centre, seemed to inti-
mate either that the mansion to which it led
was the property of an absentee, orthat itwas
the residence of some person who was not
anxious to enter into the strife of emulative
hospitality with the gentry in his neighbour-
hood.

" Castle-Hamond? Here it is ! — Will we go
up, boys?" asked one of the party.

" I say, no !" exclaimed the Buhal Droileen
— whose aristocratic spirit had been rendered
still more overtopping than everby the inspira-
tion of the many sparkling glasses he had
tasted since he had first broached his senti-
ments while Davy broached his eider — "The
Wran won't show himself to any but a raal
gintleman to-day."

216 THE HALF SlR.

** Poh ! what is it after all — Is'nt he as good
as old Falahee if you go to that of it — and he
keeps, Remmy O'Lone teils me — that's his own
man — the best of every thing — and has a füll
purse moreover. And he's a Cromwaylian,
any way.^"

"Is he a Cromvvalian ?" inquired the refrac-
tory wren-boy, trying to steady himself, and
moved to ahesitation rather by the prospect of
Mr. Hamond's good cheerthan by the new point
of genealogy that was made out for him. ** Can
you make it out that he's a Cromwaylian?"

" Sure the world knows it, and many says
he 's one o' the Bag-and-Bunf men, too."

'* Oh — then the Wran will pay him his com-
pliments. Come along, boys." And staggering
toward the gate, which lie opened after making

* The descendants of ttose who came over with Cromwell.
t The descendants of those who landed at Bag-and-Bun with
Richard Fitzstepheu», the first British invader of Ireland. — Thus
the adage —

" At the creek of Bagganbun,
Ireland was ylost and wonne."

THE HALF SIR. 217

several efForts to ascertain the precise geo-
graphy of its fastening, he led the way, shout-
ing and singing by turns, along themossy and
rarely trodden avenue.

In a fewminutesthey had marshalled them-
selves before the house (a ruined building, the
greater number of the Windows of which were
broken, stuffed with newspapers, pieces of
blackened board, and old clothes), and set
up a new stave of their traditional anthem.

" Last ChristmasS'day 1 turn'd the spit,

1 burn'd my finget — (Ifeel it yet) —

A cock-sparrow ßew over the table,

The dish began tofight ivith the ladle —

The spit got up like a naked man,

And swore he 'dfight with the dripping-pan ;

The pan got up and cock''d his tait,

And swore he'd send them alt tojaiU"

The merry-makers, however, did not receive
so ready a welcome at Castle-Hamond as they
had done at most other houses. The chorus
died away in perfect silence, and the expectant
eyes of the singers glanced from casement to
casement for several minutes, but no one ap-

VOL. I. L

218 THE HALF SIR.

peared. Again tbey raised their voices, and
were comraencing —

*' The Wran!—the "

— when a bündle of newspapers was withdrawn
from a broken pane, and in their place a head
and arm made their appearance. It was a hat-
chet-face, with a pair of peeping pig's-eyes set
close (like a fish*s) on either side — the mouth
half open, an expression of mingled wonder and
curiosity depicted onthe features — and a brown
strait-haired wig, which time had reduced to a
baldness almost as great as that of the head
which it covered, shooting down on each side,
like a bunch of rushes, toward the Shoulders.

" Good morrow, Mr. Remmy," said the y oung
man who had advocated the title of the pro-
prietorof Castle Hamond to the homage of the
Wren — "we're come to pay our compliments
to the master."

"Whisht! whisht! dearboys!"exclaimedthe
head, while the arm and band were waved
toward theni in a cautionary manner.

THE HALF SIR. 219

" Poh, what whisht ? Let him give us some-
thing like a gentleman, and weUl whisht as
much as he pleases."

"Are ye tired o' ye'r lives? He*s likea mad-
man all night. There's nothen for ye."

" D'ye hear what he says, as if it was to a
beggarman heM be talken ? Go along in — take
your head out o' that, Remmy, if you love it.
Nothen for us !— Take your head out o' that,
again ! if you haven't a mind to lave it after
you — and no great prize 'twould be to the
man that would get it in lose after you,
either."

" It may be a very bad one/' said Remmy
O'Lone, " and an ill-looking one enough may
be, but rd look a dale droller widout it for
all that/'

" Well, an' are we to get nothen for the
Wran ? Is that the way of it ? Come, boys,
one groan for the old miser — "

" Whisht ! agin ! O boys, for shame ! Well,
aisy a while and FU see what's to be done.

220 THE HALF SIR.

But don't make a noise for your lives, for he
did'nt lave his room yet."

Remmy withdrew his head from the window,
replaced the newspapers, and walked in a me-
ditative way along a dark flagged hall leading
to many of the principal sleeping Chambers of
the old mansion. He paused near one of the
doors, and after many gestures of agitation and
distress, he tapped softly with the knuckle of
his forefinger upon the centre pannel, bending
his aar toward the key-hole to ascertain as
much as possible of the eiFect which his in-
trusion produced.

"Who's there?" was askedin a tone of some
vexation.

" Are you awake, sir?" said Remmy, in a
soft and conciliating accent, such as a man
might use in making acquaintance with a fierce
mastifF.

" If I wäre asleep, do you think Fd ask the
question, Remmy ?"

*' Wisha then, no, surely, sir," said the man.

THE HALF SIR. 221

** I dun know what come over me to ask my

question."

" Well, what's the matter now ?"
" Come to See you they are, sir."
**Who, man?" was asked in some little

alarm.

'* The Wren-boys, sir."

*'The Wren-boys!"

'* Yes, sir, in regard o' Saint Stephen."

" The Wren-boys come to see me in regard

of Saint Stephen!" was repeated in aslow and

bewildered tone.

At the same time the party without, a little

impatient at Remmy's delay, recommenced

their noisy harmony —

"T/ie Wvan — the Wran^ihe king of all hirds,
Saint Stephen' s day was caught in the furze —
Although he's little "

The Strange disturbance seemed to aggravate
the wrath of the secluded tenant of the Cham-
ber " What's all this din, you ruffian V*

he said to Remmy in a furious tone.

" Themselves thafs singen it, sir."

222 THE HALF SIR.

" What? who are they, sir?"

" The Wran-boys/'

'• The Wren-boys again ! Who are the Wren-
boys? what the plague do they come clattering
their old pans and kettles here for ? What do
they want, Remmy ?"

" Money I believe, sir, and liquor."

" Money and liquor ! From whom, pray?"

" E'then from your honour — sure 'tisn't from
the likes o' me they'd be expecten it?"

" Why, are they creditors of ours, Remmy ?"

" O not they, sir, one of 'em — sure yourself
knows we owe no money. But they want a
little by way of a compliment in regard o' Saint
Stephen."

"Saint Stephen! Why, what the mischief,
I ask you again, have I to do with Saint Ste-
phen?"

*' Nothen, sure, sir, only this being his day,
whin all the boys o' the place go about that
way, with the wran, the king of all birds, sir,
as they say, (bekays wanst when all the birds

THE HALF SIR. 223

wanted to choose a king, and they said they'd
have the bird that would fly highest, the aigle
flew higher than any of 'em, tili at last whin
he could'nt fly an inch higher, a little rogue
of a wran that was a-hide under his wing, took
a fly above him a piece and was crowned king
of the aigle an' all, sir), tied in the middle o'
the holly that way, you see, sir, by the leg,
that is. An old custom, sir. They hunted it
this mornen, and stoned it with black-thorn
sticks in regard o' Saint Stephen. That's be-
cause he was stoned be the Turks himself,
sir, there's a great while there sence. With
streamers and ribbins flyen about it. Be the
leg they tie it in the middle o' the bush within.
An' they sing that song that way for the
gentlemen to giv^e them a träte, as it were,
* Get up, ould 'oman, an' give uz a träte/ —
or, * get up — fair ladies — ' — or — ' we hope
your honour,' as the case may be, all in re-
gard o' Saint Stephen. And they dressed out
in ribbins, with music, an' things. Stoned be

224 THE HALF SIR.

the Turks, he was; Saint Stephen, long ago.
Bad manners to 'em (an' sure where's the good
o' wishen 'em what they have before ?) where-
ever they are, for so doen. 'Iss indeed, sir."

** So I am to understand from you that a
number of young men come to demand money
from me, because they got up this morning and
hunted a little wren, tied it in the middle of a
holly-bush, and stuck a parcel of ribands on
the boughs. Is that the utmost extent of their
claim on me ?"

** O then, Lord help uz !" saidRemmy, greatly
perplexed — " if one was to go to the rights o'
the matter, that way, sarrow a call more have
they to you, I b'lieve, sir."

" Well, then, let those gentlemen take their
departure as soon as they please. They shall
seek their reward elsewhere, for it is an exploit
which I am incapable of appreciating."

'* O sir, sure you wouldn't send them away
without any thing, to disgrace us?"

" Go along, sir, and do as you are directed/*

THE HALF SIR. 225

" Well, well, to be sure, see what tbis is,"
Remmy O'Lone muttered in great distress, as
he paced reluctantly along tbe hall, revolving
in bis mind tbe manner in wbich he should
most palatably announce tbis disagreeable
intelligence to tbe crowd witbout. They were
preparing to renew the chorus wben be opened
tbe massive ball-door, and proceeded to address
them. As bis master bad not permitted bim
to gratify bis auditors in tbe substantial way,
Remmy tbought tbe least be migbt do, was to
take what liberties be pleased witb tbe form
and language of tbe refusal.

" Boys," said be, " Mr. Haraond is in bed,
sick, an' he desired me to teil ye that he was
very, very sorry intirely that be had notben to
give ye. He desired bis compliments, an' be's
very sorry intirely."

" I knew be was a main wretch !" exclaimed
tbe wren-boy — " He a Cromwaylian — be Bag-
an'-Bun ! Bag an' baggage ! O, 'pon my word,
be's a great neger."

L 2

226 TUE HALF SIR.

" Houl your tongue, I teil you, Terry Leni-
gan," Said Remmy. " Don't anger me, I'd ad-
vise you."

"Remmy, would you answer one question/'
Said Terry, " an' we'U be ofF. Who is it milks
Mr. Hamond's cows ?"

To understand the point of this query, it is
necessary the reader should be informed that,
in consequence of Mr. Hamond's allowing no
dairy woman a place in bis establishment,
which was solely composed of Remmy and bis
old motber, a false and invidious report bad been
circulated tbat tbe office alluded to in tbe last
speecb(wbicb in Ireland is looked upon as ex-
clusively womanisb and unwortby of tbe dig-
nity of man), was fulfiUed by no less a personage
tban tbe redoubtable Remmy O'Lone bimself.
Tbis disgraceful cbarge, tbougb frequently and
indignantlyrebutted,was tbemore maliciously
persevered in, as it was found to answer its cbief
object not tbe less efFectively — tbatof irritating
the temper of its subject, and furnisbing the

TrtE HALF SIR. 227

spectators with what Hobbes would call a spec-
tacle exceedingly gratifying to their vanity — a
man in a State of comically passionate excita-
tion. It lost nothing of its usual force by its
total unexpectedness at the present moment.

Remmy plunged forward toward the Speaker,
then remained fixed for a few raoments in an
attitude minative of ofFence — the consummation
of his desires being checked by a rapid and
almost involuntary reflection on the little glory
he would be likely to reap from an engagement
in which the odds would be so awfully against.
him. Then suddenly recollecting himself, he
stood erect, putting his little finger knuckle
between his lips, and blew a whistle so shrill
and so loud, that the echoes of the broken hüls
which surrounded the Castle, — and in the fine
phraseof the Spanish poet, stood aloft in their
giant stature, ruffling their foreheads against
the morning sun,* returned the unwonted

• Este Monte eminente

Que arruga al Sol en seno de su frente.

228 THE HALF SIR.

sounds in an hundred varied tones. This was
not the response, however, which Remmy am-
bitioned, so much as the yelling of a leash of
beagles, who presently made their appearance,
though not in time to do any considerable da-
mage amongst the aggressors, who retreated
in double quick time, making such a din as no
power of language that the writer possesses
could posslbly convey to the reader.

" I '11 not be able to stand this long, mother,''
said Remmy, as he returned to the kitchen,
where old Minny OTone was quietly seated by
the breakfast-table, making as rapid progress
as her toothless jaws would permit her to do,
through the reeking mountain of sleek-coated
potatoes and virgin-white milk that covered
the board. — "My master an' Fll never agree
together, I see that, an' if I once get my
chardcter from him, I M cut my stick to-day
before to-morrow, that's what I would. — See
what this is ! A decent, well commended,
notable lad with as much papers in charäcters

THE HALF SIR. 229

in me ehest as 'ud be the maken of a grocer if
he got it for waste-paper — a lad with as strait
an' round a leg," he added, extending one
which certainly (notwithstanding Remmy's
wig) justified the commendation — " as ever
stood in white cotton on a dickey— and I don't
care whose the other is — a leg that never
thought 'twould be forced to raount a brogue
again any way ; here am I now, in the flower
o' my days, cook, ostler, groom, herdsman,
goorson, gard*ner, Steward, an' all, in this old
box pitched up on the top of a hill, and shak-
ing to every blast o' wind like a straw upon
the waters — as bad as the Darbyshire stone
that me master an* meself seen once in our
travels in foreign parts, sarven a man that
has such quare ways — disgracen himself an'
all belongen to him. There '11 be a holy show
med of US with the Wran-boys. I set the

dogs after 'em — for that's more of it, too.

Another job they give me, as if I hadn't
enough."

230 TUE HALF SIR.

The ringing of a bell cut short the train of
Remmy's murmurings.

*' That's for his tay, to have it ready for
him," Said he, stirring the fire and arranging
the kettle, **if he wasn't so sickly (an' a body
doesn't know the time he '11 go) — an' there's
no sayen what sort of a will he has made, but
if Remmy O'Lone isn't high in the sheepskin,
Mr. Hamond is not the man he oiight to be.
Sure he has no rilations, an' if he had itself
what are they, only as you may say, the casual
gifts o' forten, whereas, a good sarvant is a
man's own choice, that ought to be esteemed
according."

'* How do you know will the master ever
die V Said the raother.

" Eh V

"How do you know is it himself that's
thereatall? When he got the sickness that
was goen last summer, by being so mooch in
the houses o' the poor people, do you know
what I done? I tuk a bit o' the but it's a

THE HALF SlR. 231

sacret — the herb they say that teils for life or
death by boiling it in a skillet, and if it turns
green, the man recovers, if black, he dies
surely — an' I put it down here on the fire about
the dead o' night, when ye were all in bed, an'
he was j ust drappen ofF in bis crisis — despaired
of be the doctors, and I looked into the skillet
by'n-by, and sure there it was, no change at
all in it, only just the same colourit was when
I putit down,"

** O that 's all nonsense — poh ! that 's ye're
shooperstishons," said Remmy, whose travels
with his master had taught him to despise the
legends of his native soil, at least in outward
appearance and in the day-time. ** If it wasn't
himself, do you think he 'd be so wild when he
hard o* Miss Emily's misforten. O, the poor
lady ! Ah, mother, that was the real lady —
Heaven rest her, this day ! 'Twas she that had
the open band to the poor servant — an* she 'd
slip it into your band as soft as if she didn't
feel herseif given it into your hand that way-^

232 THE HALF SIR.

an' she looken another vvay, or may be smilen
at you an' sayen, * Remmy, I gev you a dale
o' throuble this while back/ — or 'Remmy,
here*s a keep-sake for you/ with a voice that
would raise the very cockles o' ye'r heart with
its sweetness. And such a fine proud step
with her for all ! An' the way she used to walk
along/' Remmy continued, standing up and
forgetting his half-peeled potatoe in his enthu-
siasm, while he imitated the action he de-
scribed — " springen ofF the ball of her little
foot and looken out from under her eye-brows
as if it was out of the clouds she come. An' to
think, mother/' he added standing erect and
staring on the old woman — " to think that all
that should go for nothing ! The match made —
the wedden fixed — the day coom a'most all
but one — the favoufs given out — the gloves
sent round — the bride-cake baked — the dresses
both for herseif and himself finished off— the
music ready — the priest at band — the frinds
convanient — andhoop! whisk !" Remmy con-

THE HALF SIR. 233

linued, slapping both hands together with a
loud report, and then tossing them up to their
furthest extent over his head to express sud-
denness — *' all gone ! as you'd puflf the down
ofFaclock!* Slap ! as if yourubbed youreyes
an' saw the saa where that mountain is over-
right US. Whack ! no more sign o' the whole
afFair than of a sperrit that 'ud vanish, you 'd
think ! — She was a high lady in her time — low
enough she lies now. The pace an the light
of heaven lies with her where she lies, for
ever !"

And having unburthened his heart by this '
panegyric, Remmy resumed his place and his
toil at the breakfast-table.

• The seed bud of a common weed so called.

CHAPTER II.

I know not what the matter is, but I am grown very kind and
am friends with you — You have given me that will kill me
quickly, but I '11 go home and live as long as I can,

Beaumont and Fletcher.

Detesting from our hearts all unnecessary
mystery, which is no less repulsive in a narra-
tive, we apprehend, than in the transactions of
social life, we shall proceed to lay before the
reader, a few events in the life of the proprietor
of Castle Hamond, in the course of which, he
will find an explanation of the allusions con-
tained in Remmy's last oration.

It will be needful, moreover, that we take
the reader for a short time out of Munster,
the general scene of action which we have se-

THE HALF SIR. 235

lected for the conduct of these histories ;
promising him, that as we tread but tenderly
on other ground, the period of our absence
shall be limited to as brief a space as may suf-
fice to make him comprehend the chain of the
story.

There are no classes of beings, either in the
social or natural world, so distinctly separated
one from the other, that an intermediate spe-
cies may not be observed partaking of the na-
ture of both, and generally combining their
least tolerable peculiarities. These amphibious
monsters are generally found, in social hfe, to
consist of the vain and the vulgär ; and I be-
lieve there is no country in the world where a
class of persons may not be observed who stand
thus between humble and " respectable" life —
drawing the external fopperies and gaudiness
of the one over the coarseness of the other,
and hanging like the link of an ill-favoured
chain between the two diamonds, simplicity
and refinement. Disowned by the class to

236 THE HALF SIR.

which they would aspire, and disliked by that
which they have deserted, these people would
lead very miserable lives, if it did not happen
providentially enough that they are burthened
with no inconvenient quantity of feeling, and
find in the gratification of their vanity, a hap-
piness more than commensurate to the gratifi-
cation which they ought to receive from the
repulsive scorn of those above, and the insolent
reproaches ofthose below them. In this genus
may be classed the long array of coarse faces
that one finds astray in Leghorn bonnets
— the splay feet in silk stockings — the half-
educated pretenders in conversation, who steer
a clear course between the natural wit of the
lower and the fine taste and acquirement of the
higher Orders — the shock heads that have dis-
carded the lowly feit, and glisten in beaver —
all, in Short, that is tawdry, and coarse, and
flippant in society.

It does not always happen, nevertheless, that
the individuals whom fortune, not choice, has

THE HALF SIR. 237

thrown into this class, are totally destitute of
sensibility, and when the contrary is the case,
thereader(possessingadue Proportion himself)
may easily imagine how much more acute it is
rendered by the absence of sympathy conse-
quent on its very rarity. This was the Situation,
in early life, of the hero of our tale, and it was
rendered still more distressing by the natural
disposition of the man, which was so morbidly
sensitive, that it would have required much
care, and a vigorous exertion of mind in any
Station to save him from the perils of disgust
and misanthropy.

The nearest relative of his own that Eugene
Hamond had been ever acquainted with, was
an old man — a second-cousin of his father's —
who returned to his native isle (with a fortune
made of sugar and tobacco in the Illinois),
just in time to see poor Hugh made an orphan,
and to grant the dying request of his father,
that he would see the child taken care of — a
promise which he made with an ill grace and

238 TUE HALF SIR.

performed with a worse. This old fellow was one
ofthose selfishly generous beings whoconfer a
favourfortheirown sakes alone — and wliile they
mingle so much ungracious rudeness with their
liberality, as to make it a pain, not a pleasure
to the receiver,yet look for as warm and abun-
dant a show of gratitude as if the gift were not
entirely a selfish action. A show of gratitude,
we say, for as it is a gaudy vanity v/hich prompts
the benefit, so an ostentatious gratitude will
amply suffice to repay it. The old man pos-
sessed not the silent feeling of generosity in
himself, and had no faith in the silent gratitude
of his young proteg6. The shy temper of the
latter recoiled from the blazonry of affection
which was thus required from him — and more-
over feit it wearisome and annoying to be con-
stantly reminded of benefits which had been con-
ferred on him at an age when he was incapable
of appreciating the consequences of laying
himself under an Obligation, and of course
could exercise no election in the matter. Old

THE HALF SIR. 239

Hamond had been an enthusiast in bis youtb,
and had left home witb tbe bope of procuring
in a distant land tbe means of renclering bim-
self respected and beloved in bis own. No
person could bave set out witb kinder or more
afFectionate intentions — but tbeir performance
was fixed for a period too remote, and (as is,
we fear,only too frequently tbe case witb young
adventurers) be conceived bimself entitled, on
tbe strengtb of bisultimate designs, to omitall
tbose intermediate and minor attentions to bis
friends at bome, wbicb duty, gratitude, and af-
fection demanded from bim. " It is no matter,"
he would say to bimself, wben tbe post brought
bim a letter füll of gentle mnrmurings and af-
fectionate reproacbes from a motber wbo loved
him well, and whom be loved in turn, taxing
bim witb a long series of letters unacknow-
ledged, and fondness apparently forgotten —
'* It is no matter, I am getting on rapidly here
— Twin be only a few years more, and Fll
have a fortune made here — and then VW shew

240 THE HALF SIR.

my mother that she mistakes my character;
that it is not for myself only I am toiling — and
that she has not been forgotten as she supposes.
ril return to her with the means of increasing
her comfort, and that will be a better proof
of my love than a mere string of erapty words,
which can answer no good purpose but that of
putting half-a-crown into the King's pocket. —
Besides, I will answer this letter, at any rate,
to-morrowJ" And then he would apply himself
more vigorously to business than ever — he
would overwork his slaves — seek new connex-
ions, and swifter means of profit — new wealth
would flow in — his hope would becomebrighter
— his wishes would swell with his prosperity —
he would no longer content himself with the
prospect of rendering his parents comfortable
in their Station — he would lift them above it.
They should become the envy of the country
side. His father should be a gentleman and
his mother a lady. He would buy out Mr.
Moore's estate (a luined, mortgaged property).

THE HALF SIR. 241

and give it to his father. They should cut
the Ryans out of the field, and distance the
Heaveners — the most rapidly improving Pala-
tines in the country. In the midst of these
day-dreams a letter of fresh complaints would
appear like a spectre before his eyes — to pass
away and be forgotten in a similar manner.
The renewal of those charges, however, could
not but disturb him; and while he could not
shut up the ears of his heart to the reproaches
of his own conscience, he endeavoured to shift
his vexation from his own neglect, to what he
was pleased to term the importunity of his
friends ; and making as much account of his
intentions, as if they were benefits actually
conferred, he began to treat those latter with
as much ill-temper, as if he were sufFering under
some considerable injustice. The longer he
delayed writing, the more impressed he be-
came with the belief that some more sub-
stantial apology than a mere Statement of facts
would be required from him, and he had not

VOL. 1. M

242 THE HALT SIE.

yet contented himself with the extent of bis pro-
perty. All comraunication, therefore, ßhortly
ceased between tbem. In tbe selfisbriess of
bis own heart, be had vilely undervalued tbe
Sterling wortb of buman nature altogetber ; be
considered not bow mucb more precious to tbe
heart of a fond motber would be one token of
afFection, one word, one remembrance from
an absent cbild, tban if be could pour out tbe
•Weahb of all tbe nations at ber feet.

-He did not consider tbis, neitber did it once
occurto bim tbat any cbange could bave taken
jplace at bome, wbile time was laying its wbite
band upon bis own bead in a foreign clime.
He was astonisbed,tberefore, to find,on return-
ing (witb a fortune sufficient even to satisfy bis
own longing) to bis native village, tbat wbile
die bad been revolving a fine scheme for the
-elevation of bis parents, death had laid tbem
low in tbe grave. They had died in want,and
left their son no blessing.

Wbat was be now to do witb the beap of

TiJ^E HALF Sil^. 243

yellow trash which he had been forty years in
ainassing ?— It lay, a dead weight, upon his
h^nds. Mr. Moore, t\\e Ryans, and tlie Hea-
veners, the objects of his lo.ve and his envy,
WQEe;alike vanish^d from the face of the soil —
and he turned in disgust and impatience from
the crowd of new faces that stared upon him.
from the haunts of his boyhood. The only
one of his old companions that remained was
the father of our hero, and he tarried no longer
than just sufficed to teil him the manner of his
parents' death, and to place in his hands the
child he was about to leave otherwise utterly
destitute.

Xhis little.relic of his father's housewas not
pdzed by the old man so highly as might
have been expected. It was a long time before
old Hamond could bring himself to look upon
the boy in any more tolerable light than that
of an usurper, who had suddenly darted upon
him and snatched away the prize which he had
treasured up for dearer friends. In the process

244 THE HALF SIR.

of time, however, the gentleness and docility of
the child won somewhat upon his regard ; and
we have already seen the manner in which his
awakened kindness began to expend itself. His
still unextinguished vanity, moreover, had a
large share in the motives which occasioned
Eugene's good fortune. As he could no longer
make ladies and gentlemen of his dead friends,
he determined to do as much as his fortune
would enable him to accomplish in that way
with respect to his protege. But he took es-
pecial care that no benefit was ever conferred,
without making the latter as perfectly sensible,
as words could render him, of its extent and
munificence; and while he thus dragged, as it
were, from the heart of the latter, a timid and
hesitating expression of the burning gratitude
which he feit, he was naturally dissatisfied
with the faltering manner of the boy, whose
excessive timidity of disposition rendered him
very unwilling to enter into a perfect confi-
dence and intimacy with a nature so coarse.

THE HALF SIR. 245

SO ungentle, and so unlike his own. What we
are endeavouring, but very faintly, to convey
to the reader in narrative, may, however, be
much more clearly laid before him, by tran-
scribing a scene which took place between our
hero and his benefactor, on an occasion when
the latter fomied the resolution of removing
to Dublin, for a few years — as much (but this
he reserved to himself) for the purpose of re-
lieving his own eyes from the sight of objects
which were to him all tinged with the gloom
of some mournful recollection, as with the in-
tention of completing the education of his
young heir and relative.

He had been meditating, during the morn-
ing, on the benefit which the latter would re-
ceive from the measure he was about to adopt,
and had placed the gratification of his own
wishes so much out of sight, that he presently
persuaded himself that nothing but Eugene's
advantage was influencing him in the step;
and he was in consequence wrapt into a per-

246 THE HALI^ Sfllt.

fect admiration of his öwn munificence when
the youth ehtered the room, his face glowin^
with exercise; and a small hurly and ball in his
band. As is generally the case with all morose
people when they have brought themselves to
resolve upoil a liberal action, bis heart wäriived
toward the object of it, and he held out his
band with a smile of readier kindness than
nsual, and beckoned him toward the sofa,
where he sat in his long brown great coat and-
Leghorn hat, with a Havannah cigar half-butnt
in bis mouth.

" Come here, Hugh, niy lad — give me your
band, Sir. Ha ! — what have you been at, child ?
You're like my poor mother in the eyes, I
guess, you are/'

'•"Playing goal, Sir, I was — with little
Remmy O^Lone."

'' Remmy O' Lone ! Fie, you grovelling little
animal, that's nö cornpanion for you. Was
that what I haVe been toiling and moiling for
these forty yearö, scraping and saving, up early

THE HALF SIR. 247

and late, working and wearing the flesh ofFmy
bones, and all for your benefit Eh? Sir?"

A pause.

"To haveyeu spend your time playinggoal
witb Remmy O'Lone ! Come here, Hugh.
Is there any thing you are in waurt of now V*

" N — o — no ! Sir," said Hugh, hesitating be-
tween bis fear of giving offence by a refusal
and accepting an unnecessary Obligation; for
youth as he was, he had already b€gun to dis-
cover the inconveniencies of the latter course.

" Because if you do, Hugh, you know you
have nothing to do but to command me. — What
have I all this wealth for but for your use?
What have I been struggling and labouring for
during my whole life but for your benefit ?
And you are welcome to it, Hugh, as welcome
as if you were my own child,, for you are a
good lad, Hugh, you are."

*' I declare — I'ni greatly obliged to you,

uncle "

" Pah ! now, that's what I hate ! Do you

248 THE HALF SIR.

think 'tis thanks Vm looking for, Sir ?"— " Come
here to me, what do you think Vm going to
do for you now, guess ?"

Hugh looked pained and puzzled.
"You are now fifteen years of age — I have
expended more money on your edication than
was ever spent in the raising of any of your
family before. I have given more for books
and other notions for you than would have
bought a bunch o' niggars. Now Fm going to
take you to Dublin to finish your edication,
slick-right-away ,'^

The blood rushed into Hugh's cheek, and he
was about to utter an exclamation of gratitude
and delight — but recollectinghowhe had been
checked for doing so the moment before, he
was silent.

Old Hammond stared upon him. "Why
you don't seem to like this, Hugh, you don*t."

" Oh yes, Sir— I do, indeed— but "

"But what?"
"Nothing, Sir."

THE HALF SIR. 249

" Nothing i—Are these my thanks ? No mat-
ter. Very well, Sir. No, I won't hear any
thing from you now. Go along to your own
room. Very well, Hugh !"

Too delicate to expose to the possibility of a
repulse the warm feeling of gratitude which
he was conscious of possessing, Eugene left
the room to fret and chafe in the solitude of
his own Chamber — blaming himself for his
awkward manner — füll of agony at the thought
of the cold Impression which he left on his
uncle*s mind — and never once dreaming of
questioning a Statement which had been con-
stantly dinned into his ear from the time when
first that organ became capabie of exercising
its funetion, that his advantage was the cause
and not the consequence of all his uncle's toil
and labour. His uncle was not so blind to the
distinction, but he had shut his eyes to it a
long time, and at length began to believe that
it no longer existed.

Scenes, similar in their tone and issue to
M 2

250 THE HALF SIR.

the above, were aJmost of daily occurrence
during their residence in the metropolis. — Had
Eugene feit towards his benefactor the indif-
ference with which he was constantly charged,
he might have led a pleasant, easy life ; but
his temper, becoming every day more and more
morbid and irritable by the recurrence of those
annoying demeles, left him not a moment's
peace. Very often, too, he imputed to his
uncle an acuteness of feeling equal to his own,
and estimating the resentmentof the former at
finding or believing himself treated with ingrati-
tude, by what his own would be in a similar
case, he thus iearned to ma^e pity for the old
man constitute at least half his misery ; a thing
that he would not have done had he been able
to see that old man's heart. By some means,
however, it unfortunately happened that the
two relatives never happened to fall into the
same state of feeling at the same time. When
Eugene would come into his uncle's presence
in a morning, after meditating, through a long

THE HALF SIR. 251

and feverish night, on the part he had acted in
some quarrel the evening before, and forcing
himself at length into the conviction that the
fault lay on his own side — that his uncle was,
as he had often declared himself to be, the best
possible uncle that nephew ever had; when
he entered the room, we say, in the morning,
with a penitent face, and a heart anxious to
unburthen itself at the feet of his benefactor,
he would be surprised by some dry, every-day
Observation; or perhaps some jest, which
shewed him that the afFair which lay so heavily
upon his mind, and heated and broke his slum-
bers, was as totally forgotten by the other, as
if they had parted the night before the best
friends in the world. The next morning, per-
haps, on the contrary, when he would enter the
breakfast-parlour with a light heart and merry
eye, overflowing with love for his uncle and
for all the world, he would find the former
cold, distant, and reserved — they would join
hands with a silent stare— and Eugene would

252 tilE HALF SIR.

find himself compelled to eat his bread once
more in the bitterness of dependence. The
misunderstanding was thus prolonged to
agony.

A heavy, dreary chain had been woiind
about the young man's spirit, which he toiled
arid toiled to rend asunder, but found too
potent for his strength* Frequently, in the
ardour of his indignant heart, when he ap-
proached that age at tvhich the thirst for inde-
pendence begins to warm in a young man's
breast, the idea of flinging himself abroad
lipon the World, and taking his fortmies boldly
and manfully upon his own unshackled hands,
would dart across his mind ; and he would
catch at it, with all the elastic readiness of
youthful hope, when the deep and real ingrati-
tude of the step, all his uncle*s kindness to-
wards him, the actual practical benefits he
had conferred upon him, would rush in a mass
before his eyes, and make him blush to think
that he had for an instant placed his merely

THE HALF SIR. 253

abstract and, perhaps, peculiar feelings and
distresses in Opposition to them. Besides,
bis benefactor was now declining fast into
tbat age vvhen the minute attention of a really
affectionate friend is most required ; and even
if Eugene could be base enough to leave him
to meet death in loneliness and sorrow, he
could not shake ofF the load of obligations
which had already been cast upon him.

" Heaven, that sees my heart," he would
frequently exclaim, pausing and extending
bis arms, as he paced bis chamber alone in
agony and irresolution, '* sees that it is not
meanness that binds me to this state of vile
dependence. But I am caught and spell-
bouud. The trap was laid for my heart be^
fore it had ever beat — and until I can unravel
the chain of past events and undo all that has
been done, I must content myself with this
hideoiis slavery. My dependence is my fate
— is the will of heaven, immutable and irre-
sistible, as much as my orphanage was, and

254 THE HALF SIR.

I may no more make my benefactor not my
benefactor now, than I can call up my dead
parents from their graves. O would to Heaven
I could have exercised a choice at the time
when he first meditated the first favour he
conferred upon me. What aload of wretched-
ness would have been spared us both!"

Neither were Eugene's distresses so entirely
fanciful or peculiar as he was willing to admit.
His uncle, in seeking to place him in a rank
above that in which he was born, had totally
miscalculated, in his simple ignorance, the
mere common expenses of the mode of life in
which he had placed his nephew. He had
added up with a slate and pencil, the sums
which it would be necessary to pay for school-
ing, clothing, and other absolute necessaries,
and imagined that the whole affair was settled
when he laid apart an annual sum for those
purposes. But Eugene soon found that there
was much more required to enable him to
appear on an equality with his new com-

THE HALF SIR. 255

panions. A thousand nameless occasions for
expense, which bis mechanical relative could
not anticipate, nor even understand, occurred
every day ; and while old Hamond was con-
stantly murmuring at home, at the drain which
Eugene 's gentleraanly life was opening upon
his wealth, the latter found himself deserted,
shunned, cut (that is the best word for the
occasion) by all the young men into whose
Society he was thrown, in consequence of his
inability to mingle in, and forward their
various schemes of recreation and amusement
in hours of leisure. He could better brook,"
however, to glide in the downcast solitariness
of conscious poverty, through the crowds of
gay and thoughtless faces that peopled this
(to hini) novel world, than to give his uncle
occasion for additional censures — it never once
occurring to him that this habit of censuring
was the joy of the old man's life, and that, in
truth, nothing could give him greater pleasure
than to have Eugene acknowledge his de-

256 THE HALF SIR.

pendence by applying to him for assistance —
as nothing was more calculated to sour his
disposition, than finding himself thus com-
pelled, as it were, to give every thing from
himself, as though it were a matter of course,
and not favour or generosity.

Eugene had, however, at length an oppor-
tunity of placing his character in its proper
light before the eyes of his uncle. It was
one of the leading foibles (perhaps, in this
instance we should more correctly say, pecu-
liarities) of the latter, to entertain a most
unbounded horror and detestation of law, in
whatever shape or form it was presented to
his eyes — a feeling which has, of late, become
almost national in certain parts of Ireland.
This weakness was in him carried to so extra-
vagant a length, that, during his residence in
the Illinois, being menaced with an action by a
former partner of his own (a prodigal, worth-
less, wretch, from whom he had separated him-
with much difficulty, and with great loss).

THE HALF SIR. 257

on the ground of an unequal division of pro-
perty at the dissolution of partnership, and a
consequent breach of contract, he had bought
him ofF, at a great price, without once inquir-
ing into the law of the case — without ventnr-
ing within eye-shot of an attorney, a race of
beings whom he looked upon as analogous
in the American towns, to the rattle-snakes
in their woods, and avoided with as much
caution. His excessive timidity on this
head, was frequently almost ludicrous. Al-
though he was, on all ordinary occasions, an.
active, stirring, bustling man, with as much
vigour, strength of understanding, and fore-
sight, as might constitute the average propor-
tion of those qualities araong men of business
in a similar rank of life, he seemed, when once
placed, even by his fears alone, within the
danger of a lawsuit, though on never so trivial
an occasion, to be suddenly deserted by all
his faculties ; he would become listless and
silent in the midst of his daily occupations —

258 THE HALF SIR*

his heart failed him — his spirlt flagged and
öunk — he would mope about his offices like a
spectre — giving absent answers — speaking in
a soft, whining tone, and staring about him
in solitaiy helplessness and hopelessness of
aspect. There was something comically pa-
thetic in all his conduct on these occasions,
which, while it made his best lovers smile in
their own despite, compelled his very slaves,
who were accustomed to his usual severity of
tone and gesture, to look upon him with an
emotion of pity. The profligate fellow, of
whom we spake, was not long in finding out
the undefended side of his partner's character,
and made, as we have said, his own uses of
the discovery.

Old Hamond was thus found, one even-
ing, by his nephew, who had just returned
from a solitaiy excursion to Howth, reclining,
as usual, with one leg stretched along the
sofa ; a small rose-wood table drawn close to
him, on which were a cigar, a lighted candle, a

glass of brandy-punch but little diminished,
and an open letter. The old man was
kaning back in bis seat with an expression of
piteoüs indecisiön on bis feaMres— a beavy
perspitation üpon bis braw — bis bfoad-leafed
Legborn bat pusbed back upon bis crown-—
and bis loose coat wrapped more closely tbaii^
usual about bis person.

" Are you ill, uncle V was Eugene's first
question as be entered tbe room, a little
startled by tbe sudden metamorpbosis in tbe
appearance of tbe latter.

" Ha !— Hugb, are you tbere ?— Gome bere,
— O we're ruined, Hugb— börse and foot, We
are."

'* Wbat's tbe matter, sir V*

" Read tbat, O dear, Hugh — wbat*ll we do
at all? Is tbere no part o' tbe world safe V

Hugb took up the letter and read as fol-
loWs:

260 the half sir.

"Mr. Hamond, Sir,

"This comes to infonn you, that I
conceive myself severely ill used by your con-
duct in not completing our original contract,
whereby I was entitled, on dissolution of part-
nership, to the bunch of niggers that worked
eastward of the snarl of stores, on the 'bacco
plantation ; not one of the same, each estimated
at three hundred dollars, moderate computa-
tion, being delivered, to my loss according.
Wherefore, take notice, that unless present
compensation be made as.above, I shall take the
Steps necessary for the recovery of my own."

"Well, Sir," said Hugh, " is this really
contained in your contract, as one of the
articles?"

" Itwas, Hugh; but, you see, the fellow and
I afterward agreed that I should keep the
bunch of niggers, in Heu of their value in
sugar,^which he sold and appropriated to his

THE HALF SIR. 261

own use — and we did so without touching
the contract ; and now he insists tliat it bas
not been fulfilled, though I have paid the
money twice ovev"

"Well, Sir! what then have yoii to do, but
to teil him to go about his business?"

*' Ay, Hugh, but he'd commence an action
at once, and ruin us."

*' Without grounds ! Ruin himself he might,
sir ; but what have you to fear from an action
brought by a man who has no claim ?"

•' Ah, Hugh, my lad, you are young in these
matters ; I teil you, the law is such a thing,
that he'd make it out — he'd find a better claim
to all I have, by only Consulting a few lawyers,
than I have myself. We '11 be ruin'd, that 's
the fact of it."

*' Then take an opinion yourself, Sir."

'* Take an opinion ! Consult an attorney !
Let a lawyer come within my doors ! Think
o' something eise, Hugh, do."

" Let US see liow the case Stands ourselves.

262 THE HALF SIR.

then. Was not the contract made in America,
Sir?"

*'Ay, Hugh j but this fellow had his establish-
ment here,so that both houses were concerned
in some way-^I can't understand — but I know
the affair can be decided here ; and as every
thing I have is in debentures, all but Castle
Hamond, he can lay his band upon the whole as
readily as I can lift this tumbler. O Hugh !"

"Stay, Sir/' said Eugene, ** I will read a
little on the matter for you."

He took down a volume of Blackstone, and
opened at the Rights of Things. It was
amusing to observe the utter helplessness,
terror, and perplexity which became every
minute more evident on the old man's face as
his nephew plunged more deeply into the wil-
derness of legal technicalities ; the distinc-
tions between gifts and grants — a chose in
action and a chose in possession — Conventions
— obligations ex contractu and quasi ex contractu
— chatteis real and personal— considerations

THE HALF SIK. 263

do ut des; facio ut facias ; facio ut des; and do
ut facias; — nuda pacta — contracts executed,
executory, express, implied, of sale, exchange,
bailnient, hiring, and debt ; testes, trusts, band-
sales, &c. &c. &c.

•*Shut the book! sbut the book !" be at
length exclaimed, rising from the sofa and
pacing up and down the room in great dis-
tress—*VNo, Hugh; ril teil you how Pll
manage it. That's the plainest bit of law I
ever heard, that there about A and B and the
flock of sheep. Suppose my debentures the
flo.ok of sheep — I myjielf A, and you B — Eh,-
Hugh ? rU make the whole over by gift to
you, and so ther^'s an end to all law, at once."
He did so — and never lifted up bis head
afterward. The sole pleasure of bis life, that
of constantly reminding bis nephew of bis
dependence, was no longer in bis power to
exercise. Hugh was now bis own master, and
bis threats and murmurings were no longer
any tbingmore than an empty sound.

264 THE HALF SIR.

The common lot of all old uncles, as well as
fathers, at length feil to tbe hands of Mr.
Hamond. After having satisfied himself that
there was no law or flaw from Islepos down to
Trinepotis Pronepos, by which Eugene's claim
to the debentures could be questioned, he
yielded to the secret conviction, which had
been long creeping into his heart, that his days
were nearly numbered, and prepared to balance
the great account in such wise as he might.

" It is no use, Hugh," said he, one morning
after the priest had left the sick-room, and
while the young man was mingling a draught
by his bed-side, " I shall die now, slick-right-
away. I have a long score to add ap, but the
Almighty that measures my time will, I hope,
look mercifully on the use that is made of it.
Hugh, my boy, never forget a good friend while
you live — don't, Hugh — never prefer a great
good intention to a little good action. If a
poor friend wants a frieze coat, don't let him
wait in his nakedness tili you can give him a

THE HALF SIR. 265

cloak o' Manchester broad-cloth ; if he cry to
you for a crust o' bread, don't bid him nurse
his hunger until you can boil him a terrapin.
Vm dying very uneasy, Hugh — Bury me ncar
my father and mother, and give the under-
taking to my old acquaintance Dillon, since I
have nothing eise to leave him of my own."

**Haveyou not, uncle?" said Eugene, stoop-
ing o ver the bed, and placing on the counterpane
the deed of gift, which had been in his keep-
ing — "This parchment has served its purposes.
1 now restore it to you, and with it take my
heart's thanks for all your kindness to me."

"Eh, Hugh?"

" O my dear uncle, I may now at least talk
freely, for my heart cannot be checked any
longer by the suspicion of self-interest. My
father and my friend, I thank you for your
care, your love, and your attention— the days
that you have spent in laying plans for my
advantage — the nights during which you have
taken my dead mother's place by my bed-side

VOL. I. 1^^

266 THE HALF ßlR.

— for all that you have done for me, take my
heart's gratitude. If ever I looked a look, or
spoke a word, to displease you, I disown the
eyes and the lips that gave the ofFence ; those
only are mine that are now pouring out at
your feet their tears and prayers for your for-
giveness/'

Old Hamond was not the less pleased at
this burst of enthusiasra from his young friend,
because it was totally unexpected. He raised
himself with difficulty in the bed, placed one
band over his eyes, as if to strengthen and
concentrate the feeble and wavering power of
vision which remained to them, while he
reached the other to his nephew, gazing, with
as much steadiness as he could command, on
the glowing, open, upturned face of the young
man. He dropped the deed on the floor,
retaining Eugene's band, which he pressed
once or twice, saying, " You are a good lad,
Hugb; you are indeed. God be with you,
boy ; he will, I am sure."

THE HALF SIR. 267

In less than a fortnight after this interview,
in which the misunderstanding of a whole life
had been cleared up so happily and so late,
Eugene Hamond fulfilled bis benefactor's last
wishes, by laying bim beside bis parents in the
cburchyard of bis native village.

We bave now seen the many circumstances
of Eugene's early life which contributed to
foster and irritate the original malady of bis
disposition — bis low birth, bis early orphanage,
his bruised and shattered pride, bis suspected
affection,bis unappreciated gratitude — and hi«
gnawing, because specious and gilded poverty.
Will the reader deem it worth bis while to see
how such a nature, sensitive even to a per-
fectly morbid acuteness of perception, fared in
its first contact with the contingencies of a
rank superior to his own ? following him into
that rank, however, ratber in pursuance of his
individual history, than with the view of fur-
nishing any new Information respecting it.

CHAPTER III.

Clerimont. — Boy, marshall him.
Boy. — With a truncheon, sir?
Clerimont. — Away, I beseech you. I'll make him
4ell ushispedigree, now. Ben Jonson.

Wh AT Irish fashionable life was at the period
when Hamond first found himself in possession
of his uncle's property (soon after the Union),
is no longer a question to be solved by the
Irish novelist. Few persons, we apprehend, will
open these volumes who have not already been
made aware of all its varieties,by a writer who
was the first to put the sickle into tbe bur-
thened field of Irish manners ; in whose foot-
steps we foUow, like Chaucer's gleaner, at a
long interval, with fearful and hesitating pace.

THE HALF SIR. 269

Casting our eyes around to gather in the scat-
tered ears which reraain after the richness of
her harvest ; and who, if her opportunities of
Observation had been as extensive as her ca-
pabilities of Performance, would have left all
the conditions of Irish life as little better thau
a stubble-field to her successors.

One Observation, however, we understand,
may be added to what Maria Edgeworth has
already recorded of the circle of Irish fashion
— that, although it is necessarily composed
of far inferior materials to that of the ex-
clusives in the sister kingdom, it is a matter
of lesser difBculty for wealth to pay its way
into the region in the latter than the former.
Pride— mere family pride, is one of the grand
national foibles which yet remain unshaken by
the inroads of modern intelligence ; and no in-
ternal or external wealth with which a man
may be gifted in his own person, will compea-
sate for the mental or corporeal poverty of
bis ancestors. This feeling (which is not

270 THE HALF SIR.

without its uses when confined within ra-
tional limits), is frequently carried beyond the
bounds of absurdity, and exercises an influence
among all classes, from the gaudy mob of cold
starers in a Castle drawing-room, to the group
of frieze-coated " follyers/* or clans-men, who
talk over the deeds of their ancestry by a cabin
fire-side. Dazzled and delighted as he was on
his first introduction to a rank in which he found
those refined feelings atid delicate miseries of
common occurrence, which in that which he
hadleft were either not understood, or laughed
at as aflfectation, or (worse than all) pitied, and
stigmatized by the odious little of nervous irri-
tahility — delighted, we repeat, as he was at first
sightof amode of life so congenial to his heart,
he soon found in the original sin of his low
birth, an occasion of deeper and more real suf-
fering than any which he had yet endured.
In Order to illustrate some of the observations
which we have made, perhaps the reader will
allow US to shift the scene for a few moment».

THE HALF SIR. 271

and omitting a detail of the minor occurrences
wliich filled up the time of Eugene for some
8onae months after his benefactor's death, in-
troduce ourselves at once into the drawing-
room of a family from whom we may leam
something of his fortunes.

It was an extensive, elegantly furnished
apartment, indicating rank as well as fashion
and wealth. A work-table, tastefully littered
vvith scraps of pic-nic needle-work, not sub-
stantial enough to incur the suspicion of utility
— just sufficed by contrast to temper and mo-
dify the general air of leisure and luxury which
pervaded the room, and to redeem from the ini'
putation of absolute idleness, two very young
ladies, whose soft white fingers escaping from
the confinement of a half-handed jean glove,
were wandering in busy idleness among sec-
tions of frills, iaces, &c. while the fair corapa-
nions, relieved from the Observation of other
eyes and ears, were conning over the secrets of
their girlish hearts in amiable confidence. Oue

272 THE HALF SIR.

of them was a blonde of a quiet sedate carriage,
almost treading on the skirts of lethargy. The
other, a finely formed girl, with füll black eyes,
hair cut short and clustering all round the head
(a fashion not yet gone out of use), a forehead
on which the seal of a noble house was as dis-
iinctly set, as if the arms had been emblazoned
upbn it; and features which even in silence
seemed to move in restless sympathy with the
animation of a restless spirit. On the cover of
her ivory work-box the name " Emily Bury,"
was prettily inlaid, and a morocco bound
prayer-book, near her companion, shewed the
words — " Martha O'Brien," impressed in
gold letters upon the cover.

** Well, Martha, you are a better archer than
I, after all," said the dark-eyed girl — " here,
while I have been toying about the target with
a hundred strings looped upon my bow, you
with your Single one have shot the shaft and
hit the very centre of the mark. So I must be
your bride-maid !"

THE HALF SIR. 1^3

" You must not envy me, Emily."

'* Envy you ? you silly girl ! — Hand me thpep
scissars, please. — I pity you. — You haye just
done like a child that swallows its sugar-
plupa at a raouthfql, and then cries to find it
gone. The women ought to send you to Co-
ventry, for giving up tbe sex's privil^ge. Do
you thipk we were made only to drop Uke
ripe peaches into a man's mouth, as he lies
lazily in pur shade, gaping his admiration? —
tp be crunched into a ßober wife at the v^ry
first Word! — Don't stare so, child — there's
nobody listening to us."

"Tbiat's well at any rate. I must teil you a
secret, Emily. Your beaux all find ypur pyidfB
intolerable. You are getting the pame of ß,
coquette."

" Am I ?— Pm glad of it.— The wretches !
They would deny us even that brief day of
ßovereignty — that little hpliday between the
drudgery of obedience to parents, and pbec|i-
ence to husbands. Ah, Martha, you will say
N 2

274 THE HALF SIR.

that I am a wise girl before you have worn caps
with ears for many months."

" I wish Mr. O'Neil heard you/'

"Ohe'dbedelighted. He*s a true Irishman.
He likes a proud woman, even though her con-
tempt should fall heaviest upon himself. There
never was a man who lived so entirely upon the
possessions of bis friends as Mr. O'Neil. He
is a poor man himself, he admits, but then he
is the poorest of bis own family — he is an un-
informed blockhead, he will allow you, but then
he has such ' bright' people, relations of bis —
be does not deny that he is a worthless, dissi-
pated wretch — but all the rest of bis family are
so respectable and so high-minded — In fact,
you would think, to bear bim speak, that he
was proud of being the scape-grace of bis own
house — the only black sheep in the fair flock
of the white-fleeced O'NeiFs.'*

"Well, there is another young gentleman,
Eugene Hamond— *'

"Quere, orentleman — '*

THE HALF SIR. 276

" There again, Emily ! You wonder that I
should Charge you with injustice — ^A blush? —
Fie ! you malicious creature ! to hit me on the
top of the finger with that heavy scissars !— -But
seriously, Emily, you use poor Hamond very
cruelly. If heheard you say suchacutting thing
as that last, I know but little of the gentleman,
or you would see but little of him afterward.''

" Oh, indeed, he's perfectly welcome to de
what he pleases. I don't think him so vulner-
able, however. I will try him a good deal far-
ther yet. You would not suppose that under-
neath all that amiable timidity and embarrass-
ment which makes him stammer in his speech
— look pale and vexed — answer with a quiver-
ing lip to my common-place questions — start
at my least motion — seem absent— and forget
to turn my music leaves and praise my singing
(for true love is scrupulous) — beneath all this,
I say, you wouldn't think that I have discovered
one of the proudest and most violent natures
that ever made a bad husband. At the last

276 THE HALF SIR.

Tabinet ball, he had got me into a corner, and
grew all on a sudden so pathetically eloquent
that — I — I was about to give some queer an-

fiwer, when young Lord E passed us, and

bowed to me. I smiled of course, and turning
again to Hamond, got such a look ! 'Pon my
honour, Fm sure l heard his teeth chattering !
— O ho ! my gentleman, thought I, your humble
servant. You will wait for my answer until I
have taught you something first — or learned
more of you myself.*'

'* But how long do you intend to make this
game last, Emily V

"Till I find myself a loser, Martha; when
the pastime tires me, I may perhaps run to a
corner, and be check-mated quietly. But i
never will, like you, let my Opponent get a
scholar*s game before I make three moves.*'

" Well, there may be danger still in all this
cleverness. What if your adversary should
give up the contest in despair ? There are no
forfeited stakes to comfort you.'*

THE HALF SIR. 277

" Psha ! the worst he can do would be to
make it a drawn game. Besides are there not
plenty of people who would be happy to take
up the conqueror ?"

** But would the conqueror be happy to take
up them?"

*' No insinuations, pray. I may punish you
as I have done before. But really, Martha,
I have no pride, upon my honour — and the
little secret I told you about Eugene the other
day, might shew you I have not."

*' You needn't blush so, Emily — Do you sup-
pose I actually suspect you of such folly ? I
merely wished to warn you of the consequences
of seeming to be influenced by it» And, once
again, mark my words for it, Eugene Hamond
will not bear any goading on the conscious
side."

" We'll try him a little, however ; you don't
know him so well as you think : — Was he
not greatly improved by his trip to the
country V*

278 THE HALF SIR.

" He does look very well. He*s one of the
handsomest young men I know, really. His
hair is beautiful — "

" And his eyes — "

" And such white regulär teeth ! — What he'd
give to be listening to us now !"

" Here, Martha, you must finish your lace,
yourself. TU work no more — I must practise.
Did I shew you the last song Hamond gave
me ?" And removing the green covering from
a magnificent harp which stood near the win-
dow, she sufFered it to rest against her Shoulder
while she ran over the prelude of a simple Irish
air, previous to accompanying herseif in the
melody of which she had spoken. Its subject
was the imaginary lament of a young Ca-
nadian emigrant over the grave of his young
wife. —

I. -'■'

The tie is broke, my Irish girl !

That bound thee here to me,
My heart has lost its single pearl—

And thine at last is free —

THE HALF SIR. 279

Dead as the earth that wraps thy clay,

Dead as the stone above thee —
Cold as this heart that breaks to say

It never more can love thee.

II.

I press thee to my achin g breast

— No blush comes o'er thy brow —
Tbose gentle arms that once caress'd,

Fall round me deadly now —
The smiles of love no longer part

Those dead blue Ups of tbine —
I lay my band upon thy heart —

'Tis cold, at last, to mine.

III.
Were we beneath cur native heaven

Within our native land —
A fairer grave to thee were given,

Than this wild bed of sand —
But thou wert single in thy faith

And Single in thy worth,
And thou should'st die a lonely death,

And lie in lonely earth.

IV.

Then lay thee down and take thy rest,

My last — last look is given —
The earth is smooth above thy breast.

And mine is yet unriven ! —
No mass no parting rosary —

My perished love can have —
But a husband's sighs embalm her corse,

A husband's tears her grave.

S80 THE HALF SIR.

A soft, hesitating knock at the hall-door
Startled the fair minstrel, who blushed, and
fetched her breath while she half rose from the
silk cushioned stool.

" 'Tis his knock, indeed," sfiid the fairer of
the ladies, " His knock always says, ' Let me in,
ifyou please,* as plainly as O'Neil's says, * Let
me in.' Tis the most modest soimd that was
ever extracted from mere hrasß, decidedly."

" The vain fellow musn't hear me singing Ms
song," Said Emily hastily, turning over the
leaves of her music — ** What's this? Oh, a
little piece of O'Neil's nonsense— that will just
do — ril vex him a little." And running a
lively prelude over the strings of the instru-
ment, she commenced an air of a very difFerent
character — in a tone of merriment not unmin-
gled, however, with a certain degree of palpi-
tation and embarrassment.

THE HALF SIR. 281

I.

When Love in a young heart bis dwelling has taken,
And pines on the white cheek, and bums in tbe veins,

Say how can tbe reign of the tyrant be shaken —
By absence 1 by poverty 1 sickness 1 or chains 1

II.

No— these have been tried, and the tempted has come,
Unmoved through the changes of grief and distress —

But if you would send him at once to the tomb,

You must poison bis hope with a dose of success.

" Admirable ! Excellent !'* exclaimed a voice
outside the door, which, opening at the same
instant, gave to the view of the surprised and'
(so far as one was concerned) disappointed
ladies,the gay and rakish person of the author
of the last song. — He made a bow to Miss
0'Brien,a low bow to Miss Bury, and seemed
determined, as it was a rare occurrence in his
life to receive a compliment, particularly from
a lady, to entertain it with all the solemnity
and iraportance of manner, which became the
occasion. " Miss Bury's execution iskilling.

282 THE HALF SIR.

isn't it V* he went on addressing himself with
a pick-pocket smile to Miss O'Brien —

" Such as only her musical tongue
Could give to such numbers as mine."

" Ton my word, Mr. 0*NeiI, my conscience
won't permit me to let you remain in error.
I assure you — I mistook your knock — "

" Now, do you hear this, Miss O'Brien?'*
Said Mr. O'Neil, interrupting her, "here's a
poor fellow that hasn't a civil word thrown to
him by anybody once in a year — and — well !
■—well !— It reminds me of what an ancestor
of mine, Sir Maurice O'Neil, said to Lord — "

" O you told US that before," said Miss
Bury.

*' There's more of it ! — Well, whose knock
did you take it for?"

" Mr. Hamond's," said Miss O'Brien.

" What Hamond ? Any thing to the Ha-
monds of Lough^rore ? — They're the only
decent Hamonds I know. — A grand uncle of
theirg, cid David Hamond, was married to one

THE HALF SIR. 283

of the 0*Learys of Morne — very good family
—I recoUect my grandmother saying — "

" He is no relative of theirs."

« Who then V*

** You might have seen hira at the Castle/'

" Eh ? what ?— the young Nabob ? Oh, cut
him by all means— he's one of the rabble—
mechanic — He's only fit Company for the tag-
rag and bobtail of the gentry, fellows like my-
self, who are the disgrace of their family. /
might take up with such a fellow for an even-
ing, because he had money and I had none —
but I would not like that any of the wealthy *
members of my family should tolerate him.
Enough for such a vagabond as myself to be
seen in such Company/'

" Oh you speak too hardly of yourself,
Mr. O'Neil ; we all know that your family is
one of the best in Ireland."

'* My dear ma'am, surely I know it is— and
that's the reason I speak. — Why, bless you,
Miss Bury, I have relations that wouldn*t

284 THE HALF SIR.

know me in the street ! Simple as I sit here,
there's not one o' my family that wouldn't be
ashamed to be seen speaking to me in any
public place. There are few besides me have
that to say. We were met, eighteen or twenty
of US, at my cousin Harry's in Kerry some
months since, and, I protest to you, without
any bragging, boasting, or vain-glory, I was
the shabbiest and the poorest of the Company.
Would you believe that now V

" I could hardly believe that you take occa-
sion for vanity out of such a circumstance."

" Vanity ! my dear ! — It's my pride and
glory— and why not? Arn't my relations my
own family ? Supposing that I am at all re-
spectable in my own person, which I grieve to
say is a very doubtful case, even to those that
know little of me, isn't it a great thing for me
to say that there is none of my name below
me? If a man deserves any additional respect
on account of his family, surely the higher
they are above himself the greater his acces-

THE HALF SIR. 285

sion of honour ? What credit could I receive
from a fellow who was below me ? Ay, you
laugh — as much as to say, that would be a
precious lad — but doesn't it make out my
point ? I feit more proud the other day when
my uncle Richard cut me at the Castle than if
I had got a dukedom."

" There's the true Sosia, Emily/' said Miss
O'Brien, as another pattering summons, still
more gentle and insinuating than that which
was used by Mr. O'Neil, en ruse, was heard to
echo through the spacious hall.

Presently after, a rieh, though rather languid*
voice, heard in parley with the servant, proved
Miss O'Brien's second conjecture right. It
was Eugene Hamond. He was shewn up.

The ladies received him kindly, but for
mally. Mr. O'Neil stood as straight as if a
poker were substituted for his spine. It was
laughable enough to observe the air of cold
repressing pride with which this man, who
confessed himself worthless in every respect.

286 THE HAL? SIR.

and was destitute alike of mental as of corpo-
real advantages, stood up to receive the accom-
plished, elegant, and unassuming plebeian
who now stood before him. Eugene did not
heed, nor scarcely observe this — but the
deportment of the ladies touched him more
nearly. In order to make the reader perfectly
enter into his feelings on the occasion, we
shall shortly explain the relative position in
which both parties were placed.

Eugene Hamond's determination to alter
his Station in life, and endeavour to naturalize
himself in a rank above his own, had not been
hastily considered, or resolved upon from nö
better impulse than that of an idle vanity.
Naturally gifted with a quick eye, and ready
apprehension of the peculiar tone of any
grade of society into which he happened to
be thrown, he required but a very brief
acquaintance with the world, to enable him to
discover all the difficulties and mortifications
he would have to encounter in the under-

THE HALF SIR. 287

taking, and he weighed those long and
seriously against the advantages which he
proposed to himself from the change.

" I admit," he said with himself, as he
mused by his afternoon fire, over the kind-
nesses and the slights which he had met with
in the course of the morning — " I admit that
for the interests of society in general, and for
those of raorality, and of religion itself, it
would be much better that all men should
remain in that rank in which they were born,
or at least that nothing less than a develope-
ment of capabilities, absolutely wonderful/
should entitle them to seek a place abore
their fathers. If distinctions of rank are in
any degree useful or commendable, it is
necessary they should be maintained even to
exclusion, unless in a very few instances,
when the applicant for admission brings an
ample equivalent in some one great and bene-
ficial quality to the fortuitous superiority
of those whose acquaintance he cultivates.

288 THE HALF SIR.

I admit all this. But the case is othervvise —
that System of absolute and unrelenting ex-
clusion is not maintained — and the question
is, whether my case is not peculiar enough to
jiistify me in seeking for an additional in-
fraction. My poor friends must not be my
companions — that is clear. — The accident of
my infancy— my disposition — my education —
habits — all have conspired to place a wall
between me and the humble life from which
I Sprung, which, I cannot, and would not, if I
could, overleap. Circumstances have fitted
me for another Station, and that Station is
left open to me. It is true that I shall meet,
as I have met, many a cold repulse in the
attempt, but there are, likewise, many over-
balancing delights. Those smiles, so ready,
so sweet, so winning, so hearted, or seeming
hearted— (and that for me, whose chief wish is
to steer clear of the asperities of life, would
answer almost as well as the sincerity itself)
— so courteous and so kind— their brilliant

THE HALF SIR. 289

trifling, and refined pleasantry — are these
nothing to the favoured and initiated ? I will
make the trial at all events — and if I fail — if
the cold eyes and staring unmoved faces that
glance like horrid spectres upon the path of
the young and unacknowledged fashionist
should multiply upon raine, why then, fare-
well happiness and high life, and welcome
once again, my lowly cot and homely Munster
village r

He did make the trial ; and he soon found
that the difficulties which he had anticipated,
were not so fleeting nor so easily surmounted
as he thought they might be. The encourage-
ment which he met witli was much more than
sufficient to have established a biunter, and
less vulnerable nature, in perfect peace, in the
new region — but Hamond's was one which
would make no exertion for itself, while it
took fire at the slightest act of neglect from
others. He seemed to expect that all should
agree to drag him forward in spite of hiraself,

VOL. I, O

290 THE HALF SIR.

and consequently made very little account of
condescensions, which were estimated at a
high value by those who conferred them. A
hankering consciousness clung about his man-
ner and his conversation, even in his intercourse
with those families who were best disposed to
receive him as an equal ; and it was scarcely
to be expected, that while he seemed bent upon
carrying the recollection of his low origin
always about him, other people should endea-
vourto forget it for him. Besides, it was not
very agreeable to his new friends to find that
they must always speak under a restraint in
his presence — that they could hardly venture
on a jest, or a sly speech, whatever were the
subject of it, without finding Mr. Hamond's
spirit all up in arms to discover whether there
were any ofFence intended towards him. He
began to feel the consequences of his suspi-
cious and sensitive temper — people shunned
him — some gently, some promptly and without
apology, some in pure pity, some with marked

THE HALF SIR. 291

contempt, and some in apprehension. Then
the suspicion of the truth broke upon him ;
he saw others of far inferior pretensions to
himself, by a little assurance of manner, and
an indifference to the flesh-wounds of neglect
and accidental coldness, succeed in fastening
themselves upon the fair eminence, on the
crumbling and uncertain brink of which he
was yet toiling, in the anxiety of hope and
fear ; and he made an exertion to Imitate their
example, and to assume an easy callousness
of heart, until, at least, his hold should be
made permanent and secure. But he miscal-'
culated his capabihties most egregiously. A
more hideous and painful spectacle, perhaps,
cannot be met with in the every-day occur-
rences of society, than that of a person of
incorrigible timidity and reserve, assuming,
or attempting to assume, by absolute violence,
the appearance of perfect ease and uncon-
scious openness. If Hamond's gentle em-
barrassment and absence of manner, rendered

292 THE HALF SIR.

him a burthen to bis companions befbre —
bis new demeanour — bis stränge familiarity —
bisqueerembarrassedlaugb — bis ill-timed joke
that made every body look serious — and bis
intrusive dogmatism of remark, absolutely
astonisbed, fiigbtened, and disgusted tbem.
Having once convinced bimself of tbe expe-
diency of doing violence to bis own feelings,
he knew not wbere to stop, and on passing
tbe boundary wbicb bis own beart prescribed to
bim, be trampled witbout discrimination, and,
indeed, in absolute ignoraiice, upon tbose
wbicb custom and decency bad marked out
for bis observaiice.

He was once more compelled to retire in
disgrace into bis natural seif; and almost be-
gan to entertain tbougbts of quitting tbe field
in despair for ever, wben a new and stränge
accident — stränge to bim — tbougb of very
usual occurrence in tbe bistory of tbe buman
beart — prevented or delayed bis retreat. A
ittled beauty bad proudly declined the honour

THE HALF SIR. 293

of dancing with him at a fashionable party —
and he was silently stealing through the Com-
pany, wilh the Intention of getting every thing
ready for his departure for home on the
next morning — when, happening to cast a hur-
ried glance aside, he perceived, in the aper-
ture between the conchoid of a general's nose
and the rosy rotundity of a raarchioness's
cheek— a soft black eye, in the distance, di-
rected füll upon him, with an expression of the
tenderest interest his poor forlorn heart had
ever experienced slnce it had been cast upon
the busy wilderness of fashion. There never
was an eye — not in Ireland — no — not even in
Munster — nor in bright-eyed Limerick itself —
that did its owner yeoman's service like that
one. It made as swift work of Eugene's heart
as (the reader will pardon our sacrificing ele-
gance to strength) — as a paviour's rammer
might have done, It was an eye that had
been foUowing Hamond in silence throughout
the evening with a kinder closeness of obser-

294 THE HALF SIR.

vation than mere commiseration might sug-
gest; and was novv, at the particular moment
when it came in direct contact of intelligence
with his own, filled up with the gentlest con-
cern. On inquiry, Hamond discovered that it
was the property of a lady of high birth, and
(of course) fine accomplishments — her name
that of the fair songstress to whom we have
lately introduced our readers.

From this moment, the whole object of
Hamond's life was changed. He no longer
courted the patronage — nor heeded the neglect
of fashion — and only stole quietly through its
byways to secure himself a place at the side of
her who now appeared to him to constitute its
sole attraction and adornment.

"I was mistaken in it," he said in his dis-
taste and impatience ; " this proud world is
not made for me — nor I for it. I will return
to the condition from which I was taken, and
divest myself as speedily as possible of those
unhealthy luxuriances of feeling, which my poor

THE HALF SIR. 295

uncle, in endeavouring to make a forced plant
of me, little calculated on producing. But be-
fore I return to the ways of piain and honest
nature, I will endeavour to pluck out of this
rank and unweeded garden, that single rose for
the decoration of my humble hearth."

That little rose, however, happened to be a

great deal more thorny than he apprehended.

Although he was not long in ascertaining that

he had made a progress in the good opinion of

Miss Bury, which might have satisfied even

the voracious craving of a sensitive love like

his, yet tbere were many annoyances equally

disaigreeable to both parties, which mingled in

the delicacies of their intimacy, and retarded

that perfect union of spirit which is ever ne-

cessary to the gratification of a heart that is at

all dainty in its affections. Emily had be-

trayed some laek of self-knowledge, when she

declared to her friend Martha that she had no

pride. She had not enough to enable her to

master her passion for her plebeian lover — but

296 THR HALF SIR.

she had quite enough to feel annoyed and hu-
miliated by the slights which were continually
thrown on him and in her presence. On these
occasions, when Eugene attempted to resume
the conversation which had been so disagree-
ably inteiTupted, he would find Miss Bury a
little reserved and lukewarm, and could some-
times trace the shadow of an inward fretting
lipon her brow. His own pride took fire at
this, and frequent and mutual embarrassment
was the result. — At length, grown absclutely
weary of the gauze-paper miseries and difficul-
ties of their flickering acquaintance, Hamond
manfully made up his spirit to the resolution
of dissevering or uniting their fortunes for
ever.

It was with this intention he now sought an
interview with her at the house of her guardian
—Martha O'Brien's father.— The s^ttled de-
termination of his purpose had suddenly quelled
all the protracted turbulence of the many im-
pulses on which his peace had been tempest

THE HALF SIR. 297

tost for the last year, and he entered the room
with a composure of eye, a steadiness of
frame, and a natural elegance of address,
which surprised his quick-eyed friends —
and puzzled himself not a little. He thought
it stränge that he should thus, without an
efFort, acquire in a moment what he had been
many months toiling to accomplish in vain —
and at the moment, too, when he had re-
signed himself to the belief that he never
should attain it.

After a few unmeaning observations on the
populär topics of the day — the general mourn-
ing for Lord Nelson — the last Castle drawing-
room — and other matters — Miss O'ßrien, act-
ing from the impulse of a strong fellow-feeling,
proposed a turn in the garden to Mr. O'Neil,
who had done nothing but sit upright and stare
at Hamdhd's Hessian boots (Wellingtons
were yet slumbering in the womb of time) —
and utter a cold " Ha !" whenever the latter
directed himself particularly towards his side
o 2

298 THE HALT SIR.

of the room. The genealogist obeyed the
lady's summons, and bowing to Miss Bury
brushed unceremoniously by the plebeian, and
left the apartment.

CHAPTER IV.

He was a wight of high renowne,

And thou art but of low degree —
'Tis pride that puts this countrye downe —

Man, take thine old cloake about thee.

Pfrcy's Relics.

'* That,'' Said Hamond, leaning over the back
of his chair, and seeming to speak half in so-
liloquy, as he remained with his eyes fixed on
the door — " that is one of the peculiarities —
the invulnerable piivileges of this polished
World, which make it so miserable to me — that
ßnery ofinsult which niakes resentment appear
ridiculous — and yet does notleave the insulted
free from the responsibility of raeanness, if he
should remain quiescent. You look fretted,

300 THE HALF SIR.

Miss Bury," he added gently, but firmly, " at
my humiliation, but I shall not need your
commiseration long. 1 am about to leave
Dublin."

*' Leave us, Mr. Hamond !" said Emily, taken
by surprise.

"Leave Dublin, I said," resumed Hamond.
" For any considerable time V
'* Yes." There was an embarrassed pause of
a few moments, during which, Hamond seemed
to experience a relapse into bis natural timidity
— At length, mastering himself by a moment's
reflection on the urgency of the occasion, he
said : —

" If you think, Miss Bury, that we are not
likely to be interrupted, I have something vety
particular to say to you — "

Emily was, as we have before said, very
young, and though she frequently listened
without much emotion to the fashionable
rhapsodies of those who thought it fashionable
to be her admirers, yet this was the first time

THE HALF SIR. 301

that she had been menaced with a methodical
declaration ; and from one too, so tender, so
delicate, and so sincere. — She feit all the awful-
ness of the occasion. Her colour chansred
rapidly, and there was a troubled conscious-
ness in her laugh, as she said, in assumed
levity —

*'- No tragedy now, Mr. Hamond, let me en-
treat. I declare, I — ''

" O come, Emily Bury," said Eugene,
smiling, but with much seriousness of tone
and look, " let me meet any thing but trifling
now. Hear me attentively I beseech, I ini-
plore you. When we first met, I was on the
point of flying for ever from a world where I
had experienced iittle comfort, where I found
nothing but taunting looks, cold and repulsive
words, and haughty indifference, even from
those who, like that man who^ust now left the
room, had nothing more to allege in justifica-

tion of their unkindness than no matter.

I had satisfied myself that I was wrong in ever

302

THR HALF SIR.

supposing that any civcumstances could entitle
a man to elevate himself above the rank in
whicl) beaven bad placed bim — "

'* Ob, surely you were not wrong, Mr.
Hamond/' said Emily, in a tone of basbful
remonstrance, " ibere were circumstances —
your talents — your education, I sbould say — "

*'Yes," Said Hamond, *' ifÄ/s, Emily, it was
wbicb detained me. I sbould bave been Ion«:
since in the retirement of my native village,
but for tbe sweet words of encouragement
witb wbicb you bonoured me. Your kindness,

your condescension, and you need not

blusb, Emily, for it is true, or I would not say
it — your beauty too, beld me back awbile, and
enabled me to endure a little long^er tbe incon-
veniencies I bave mentioned to you. I may
bave been mistaken, nevertbetbeless, in tbe
motive of tbat kindness," be added more
slowly, and witb great anxiety of manner —
" Do not mistake me, Miss Bury — Dearly as I
prized and treasured every word and look of

THE HALF SIR. 303

kindness vvith which my heart was soothed, I
am ready to take all tlie responsibility of my
own inferences upon my own hands. If I
must do so, let me beg of you to speak freely.
I love you far too well to wish that you should
make the least sacrifice for my happiness — *'
" T am sure, Mr. Hamond, I — "

** I^et me entreat you to be convinced of Ihis,

*

Miss Bury, before you speak. Pray be con-
fideiit with me. You may find that I am not
selfish nor unwortby, although — " Hamond
added, drawing bis person up proudly to its
füll height — "althougb I stooped so low to win
what you withhold from me."

The manly sincerity and frankness of the
young gentleman's declaration had its efFect
on the mind of the lady. We have not learned
what were the precise terms of her reply, but
its meaning was evident from the conduct of
Hamond. He flung himself at her feet, and
sufFered bis extacies to expend themselves in
certain antics and grimaces, which the respect

304 THE HALF SIR.

due to the character and gravity of a hero for-
bids US, as bis friend and historian, to expose
to the public eye.

Wben Martha O'Brien returned, alone, to
the room where she had left her friend, she
found the latter pale, trembling, and thought-
ful (in quite a different mood froni that in
which we have left her now accepted lover),
her arm and forehead resting against the harp,
in the manner of a weeping muse.

'* Bless me ! where *s Eugene Hamond
gone?" Said Martha, casting a sbarp glance
at Emily.

" Home, I believe,*' said the latter, se-
riously.

" Check-mated, TU lay my life!"

"Nonsense, Martha, don't be foolish now.''

" Scholar's mate, after all !"

" Pish ! pish !" Emily said, pettishly.

*' Well, how was it, Emily? What did he
say to you ? — do, do teil me, and I won't say
a word about the ' ripe peaches,' nor the * little

THE HALF SIR. 305

holiday/ nor the ' three moves,' nor the
* drawn game/ nor — "

'* Poo ! poo ! I really believe your little
portiou of common sense is going/'

" Well, there ! I won't laugh again — there,
now is a sober face for you — Now, teil me how
it was."

** 'Pon my word, Martha, I hardly know my-
self. I scarcely knew where I was when — I
don't know — but I believe the fellow asked me
to marry him — and — "

'• And you but you look paler, Eraily ! —

you are trembling — lean on me — there — Pm»
sure I would not have said a word if I
thought — ''

The strangeness of the scene which she had
gone through, the hurried manner and intense
passion with which she had been addressed,
the importance and seriousness of the conse-
quences which she had drawn upon herseif,
only now rushed upon Emily's mind, and
filled her with agitation. She drew a long,

306 THE HALF SIR.

deep sigh, and, flinging her arms around the
neck of her young friend, wept aloud upon
her bosom. Many of our sensible readers
may wonder at all this, but every girl as
young as Eraily will feel that vve are telling
the truth.

There is a pleasure to those who are pos-
sessed of faculties microscopical enöligh for
the investigation, in tracing up to their first
cause the thoiisand impulses which govern
the actions of that sex who are-most the
creatures of impulse — in winding through the
secret recesses of the female heart, and detect-
ing, in the very centre of the " soft labyrinth,"
the hidden feeling, whatever it is, which dic-
tates the (to us) unaccountable caprices we are
so frequently made to suffer under, and which
does its work so privately that even they, the
victims of its influence and the slaves of its
will, seem almost unconscionsof its existence.
Few, however, are gifted with the fineness of
Penetration requisite for such delicate scrutiny.

THE HALF SIR. 307

— and we are too honest and charitable to wish
to be among the number, neither perhaps is
precision requisite for our purpose, busi-
ness is rather with action than with motive
— and whose pait it is merely to submit a
certain train of results which are to be ac-
counted for, and acknowledged or rejected,
by the philosophy, the feeling, and the iraagi-
nation of the reader. We shall not, therefore,
attenipt any laboured analysis of the new
causes of'disagreement which speedily sprung
up between the lovers, after every thing ap-
peared to have been so smoothly arranged
between them, after the consent of Emily's
guardian had been obtained, and even Mr.
O'Neil had began to reason himself into a
toleration of the young Nabob. Hamond's
ready talking had taken Emily quite by sur-
prise ; and it is pretty certain that if she had
been left a longer time to deliberate, Hamond
would have been put to a longer term of pro-
bation. She feit vexed with her own easiness.

308

THE HALF SIR.

and a little alarraed,at the inference which her
lover might draw from it. She had not done
justice to her own value. Besides, Hamond's
vvay of love-raaking was any thing, sh e per-
suaded herseif, but flattering to her desire of
influence. He had not sufficiently kept her
superiority in mind — he had been so impudently
collected and sensible, so presumptuously self-
possessed. The raore she thought on the sub-
ject the more convinced she was of the neces-
sity of impressing him with a proper sense of
the honour he had obtained.

The means which she adopted to accom-
plish this, however, were not the happiest in
the World. Hamond was not much Struck by
the pettish and sometimes rather cold manner
in which she was accustomed to receive him,
as there was nobody more disposed to make
allowances for the influence of a peculiar edu-
cation — but when he observed indications of a
marked haughtiness in her demeanour, when
she began to speak fluently of genealogies in

THE HALF SIR. 309

his presence, to quote Marmontel and De
Lolme on the advantage of titles, to talk pa-
thetically of ill-sorted matches, of poor Addi-
son and his high-born dowager — he feit as if a
new light, or rather, a new darkness, were
rushing into his soul. He hushed up his
resentment, however, with the utmost caution,
resolving to creep unawares and with a velvet
footstep into the very centre of her character,
and shape his conduct according to the con-
formations which wouid be there revealed to
him.

"I begin to believe/' said he, "that I was
mistaken in supposing that there could even
be an exception to the general position, that
it is as easy to brush the shades of her phases
from the moon's disk as to sift out the draff of
pride and coldness from high birth, My
Single, lonely inslance begins to fall me. I
will try it farther, however."

Hamond thus proceeded, hiding his appre-
hension of her meaning from her, and conse-

310 THE HALF SIR.

quently drawing her out every day into more
decided slights and sneers. He had almost
made up his mind on the subject, when, one
evening, as he was sitting by her side at a
small party of friends, some of whom had
come to town for the purpose of assisting at
the nuptial ceremony, the conversation hap-
pened to turn on the comic peculiarities of our
friend Remmy O'Lone.

" O, he *s the drollest creature in the
World/' Said Emily. '* He never troubles
himself to inquire what the object may be of
any commission that he receives, but just does
whatever you ask him, like a clock, not out of
stupidity neither, but merely from a wish to
steer clear of any responsibility to himself.
It was only a week since, Hamond told him, as
he was going to bed at night, that he would
want to send him here to Miss Bury in the
morning, expecting of course that poor
Remmy would ask to know his message in
the morning before he set off. But Remmy

THE HALF SIR. 311

wouldnot ask. Not he, indeed. He washere
with me at the * first light/ as he said himself.
' Well, Remmy,' said I, * what brought you
here so early?' 'Whethin I dun know, Miss,'
says Remmy, ' but the master told rae he'd
want me to step over to your honour to-day
mornen, so I thought most likely, Miss, you
must know what is it ailMed him.' Hamond
was telling me a still more curious anecdote
about him. He was sent once to a fair in
Munster, the fair of Hanna — Vanna — Shana —
• what was it, Hamond ?"

'* Shanagolden," said Eugene, bowing and
smiling.

" O yes, the fair of Shanagolden. His
mistress wanted to purchase half a dozen mug
— bog— pig— "

" Piggins, they wäre," said Hamond in reply
to her puzzled look, *' p-i-g-pig» g i-n-s-gins,
piggins," spelling the word, to shew how
coolly and equably he took it. " A kind of
wooden vessel used for drinking the coagu-

312 THE HALF SIR.

lated residuum of milk, called by the peasantry
thick, or skimmed milk."

''Yes," added Emily. ''Well, his mis-
tress desired Remmy to purchase half a dozen
piggins, and provided him with money for
tliose as well as many other articles. She
was rather an anxious poor lady, however, and
fearing that Remmy migbt forget his message,
charged about a dozen other fiiends of hers,
who were also going to the fair, to repeat it to
him if they should come in contact with him.
They all did so, as it happened, and Remmy,
determined to punish the good lady for her
distrust in his talents, took each as a separate
message, and came home in the evening as hea-
vily loaded with piggins as Moses Primrose
with his green spectacles."

After the merriment which was occasioned
by Emily's arch manner and the exquisite imi-
tation, which she contrived to introduce, of
Hamond's native dialect, had subsided, some
one asked who this Remmy O'Lone was ?

THE HALF SIR.

313

. '* O 'pon my honour that would puzzle the
heralds themselves to teil you, I believe,"
said Emily, rapidly and lively, "Who is he,
Hamond ? ISlo relation ofoursV
. The moment she had uttered thewords, she
would have given a greatdeal that it had been
in her power to unsay them. Ninety-nine men
in a hundred might have passed over the sneer,
but she ought to have known enough of
Hamond to judge that he would be the hun-
dredth man in the case. — Even those of the
Company, who secretly enjoyed her little cuts
at Hamond, looked grave and silent at this*
broad insult. The young man himself grew
pale and red, attempted to say something
good-humoured in reply, but his voice failed
him — the mirth stuck in his throat — and feil
back upon his heart in a burning flood of gall
and bitterness. He did not attempt to speak
again — and the general tone of the conversation
acquired an air of restraint and awkwardness,
which was still more observable in the portion

VOL. I. P

314 THE HALF SIR.

that Emily contributed to it than in any other.
Hamond addressed himself, during the re-
mainder of the evening, to Martha O'Brien,

while young E took place by the side of

Emily, and succeeded in persuading himself,
notwithstanding her occasional fits of absence
and indirect answers, that he had made more
way in her estiraation on this night than on any
other since he had achieved the honour of her
acquaintance. His assiduity, however, was ab-
solute torture to Eraily, who was anxiously
looking out for an opportunity of doing away
the unkindness she had blundered upon. None
occurred. — Once only as she glanced toward
him shemet Martha's eye, who compressed her
ups, raised her band slightly, and tossed her
head, as much as to say, " You have done it T*
to which Emily's frightened smile as plainly
responded — " Done what ?"

The Company atlength separated. Hamond
shook hands with Miss O'Brien, bowed for-
mally to Emily, and hurried out of the house,

THE HALF SIR. 316

appearing not to notice the slight action which
the latter used to detain liim. Thisindication
was too palpable to be misconceived. Emily
clasped her hands, pressed one against her
brow, shuddered a little, and did not speak
during that night.

When she arose the next morning, the fol-
lowing letter lay among others on her toilet.
A fearful misgiving clung about her heart as
she recognized the band. She made the door
fast, and prepared herseif by summoning all
her pride to her assistance, before she ventured
to break the seal. — The contents were simply
these: —

" For the lastweek I havebeen led to think,
by your demeanour towards me, that the con-
sent vvith which you honoured me was the
effect rather of a hurried and momentary kind*
ness than of the free and settled affection
which would, only, make it dear to me. I had,
therefore, intended to restore it to you, before

316 THE HALF SIR.

last night ; although, I believe, you will do me
the justice to acknowledge that I abstained
(in violence to my own heart) from using any
of the Privileges of passion in seeking it — and
appealed rather to your reason than your feel-
ing throughout. But a circumstance which
took place last night, and which, I suppose,
you remember, has shewn me (I say this after
much reflection) that ours would not, under
any circumstances, be a fortunate union. — The
woman who can wound the feelings of her
lover can hardly be expected to respect those
of her husband. I thought too, that I could dis-
cern a cause for your demeanour towards me.
I wish not that my own selfish afFections should
interfere with that. Mine must be a bitter
fate from henceforth, Emily — but I had rather
endure it all than make it light and happy at
the expense of your inclinations. I return to
my humble Station with a wiser head and a
beavier heart than when I left it. — I go from
the scorn of the rieh to the pity of the poor —

THE HALF SIR. 317

from the busy mirth of this fascinating world
to the lowliness of my provincial life — to the
solitude of a fireside that I once fondly
dreamed would be a happy one — but which
must now remain for ever desolate. Farewell,
Emily, and may your high-born lover be as
truly, as tenderly, and devotedly attached to
you as I would have been." ;

What cause?— That l—Vf\\dit ? were the first
questions which Emily asked in coramuniou
with her own heart after she had perused the
letter. The natural quickness of her woman's
apprehension, however, enabled her to clear
up the mystery, and no sooner was it visible
than she hastened to remedy the error which
she had committed. A short struggle only
took place between her Irish pride and her
Irish love, and the latter (as is indeed generally
the result of such encounters) bore away the
palm. She wrote as follows : —

318 THE HALF SIR.

" The circumstance to which youallude was
not so entirely premeditated as you imagine.
I acknowledge that I have committed an error,
for which I am sincerely sorry. Believe me,
I did not mean to do any thing so unkind to
myself as to raake you seriously uneasy for
a moment, Pray come to me, Eugene, and I
will engageto convince you of this. My heart
will not be at peace tili I have had your for-
giveness. It was a light sin for so heavy a
retaliation as you threaten me with. Once
again, come hither quickly. E. B.

" The cause which you speak of is so wholly
without foundation, that it wasa considerable
time before I could even form a wild conjec-
ture at the import of that part of your letter."

When Emily had this letter folded, she rung
for her attendant and sent her for a taper.

" Who brought this, Nelly?" she asked
as the latter (a rather unfashionable soubrette,

THE HALF SIR. 319

but retained on the entreaty of her mother,
Emily's nurse) re-entered the room with a light,

" Misther O'Lone, Miss," said Nelly.

" Is he gone?"

" O no, Miss, — he*s below in the servants'
hall, aten a taste."

" I do not like,^' said her mistress, holding
the letter in her hand as if hesitating — *^ to
xjommit it to his keeping. He's such a stupid
fellow, that he may lose it."

" They belies him that toult you so, Miss,
saven your presence," said Nelly, with an in-
dignant toss of her head. " May be a little o'
Remmy's sense 'ud be wanten to theni that
wor so free wittheir tongue."

'* It is well that he has so good a friend to
see justice done to his name," said Emily,
lowering her eyelids and smilingon her young
handmaid, who blushed deeply.

" O fait, Miss, its no great friends he has in
me, only the crackter they gives of him, that
knows him best," said Nelly.

320 THE HALF SIK.

**Well, I will try him on your commenda-
tion, Nelly. In the servants' hall, do you

say?"

"Iss, Miss, 111 send him out upon the
landen-place to you."

When Remmy was summoned from his cora-
fortable seat by the great coal-fire, he started
up hastily — laid down the cup of tea which he
had been drinking — smoothed his hair over
his brow — and anxiously Clearing all appear-
ances of the arausement he had been indulging
in from his outward man, he hurried towards
the door. As he taid his hand on the handle,
he suddenly turned round, and in a counte-
nance of much alarm, asked : —

'* I wouldn't have the sign o' liquor on me,
Nelly ? would I ?"*

" Is it after the tay you 'd have it, you inno-
cent ?" Said Nelly, smiling in scorn at his sim-
plicity.

* Wonld I have? or would you have ? among the lower Irish
means have J ? or have you ?

THE HALF SIR. 321

Remmy did not stop to dispute the matter
with her, but hurried into the hall, where he
found Emily standiiig on the staircase, and
expecting him. He turned out his toes, made
bis best bow, and then fixed himself in an atti-
tude of the deepest attention, his head thrust
forward and thrown slightly on one side, so as
to bring both eyes into a parallel line with
hers — his ears elevated, and his mouth half
open, as if he were endeavouring to receive
her commands at every possible aperture of his
genses.

'* Remmy," said the young lady, " I wish'
you to take this letter to your master — "

" Iss, Miss "

*' Stay a moment — '*

*' O why should'nt I, Miss— Fd do any thing
in the "

*' Vm convinced of that, Remmy, but I only
wish you to attend to me — "

** Oh then Fll engage I will,--Miss— Well—
sure Vm houlden me tongue now any way,"he
p 2

322 THE HALF SIR.

added,as another irapatient gesture from Emily
solicited his attention.

" Give that letter safe, Remmy, and here—
I have given you a great deal of trouble lately
— you will buy something with these/'putting
into his band a number of the small notes which
were current at the time. "Take care of the
letter," she added, as she tripped up stairs,
leaving Remmy fixed in a position of comic
wonder and gratitude.

" One, two, three, four — an a pound — five,
six! — Six three-and-nine-penny notes, and a
pound!" he exclaimed, as he stood on the
brick floor of the servants' hall, counting the
papers as he folded them, and buried them in
the bottomless and sunless cavern of his livery
pocket. " Now, Nelly, we'll be sayen some-
then, yourself and myself. Would you have a
loand of a needle and thread you'd give me?"

** For what, Remmy, honey ?" said the young
Soubrette, v^^ith the utmost graciousness of tone
and manner.

THE HALF SIR. 323

*' To put a stitch in the pocket o' my coat
then," Said Remmy, "in dread Fd lose the
little writing she gay me out of it, asthora-ma-
chree, you wor ! An, indeed, it isn't the only
stitch^ ril have about me, Nelly," he added
with a tender smile, as he laid his hand on his
heart.

^'There's no standen you at all, Remmy,
you're such a lad ! Well, aisy, aisy a while an
ril get it for you." And favouring him with
one of her richest smiles, she left the hall.

" No, then, but there's no standen you for a
'cute lady," her swain said in soliloquy, with
a hard smile, a knowing wink, and a shake of
the head that had almost as much meaning in
it as my lord ßurleigh's — " Isn't it sweet she
is grown upon me all in a hurry, now the mo-
ment she sees I have the money — Ah, these
women ! — There's no end to 'em at all, that's
what there isn't. A while ago whin I hadn't
as much as 'ud pay turnpike for a walken stick

* Stitch — any internal pain.

324 THE HALF SIR.

— wheii my pockets were so low that if you
danced a hornpipe in one of 'em, youwouldn't
br^ak your shins against a haip'ny — then 'twas
all on the high horse with her/' elevating his
head and waving his hand in imitative disdain
— " Nolly me Biin Jerry ! — Who daar say black
is the white o' me eye ? and now, the minute
the money comes, TU be bail she turns over a
new lafe. They may get to the bottom of the
pevil's Punch Bowl in K'llarney, or the Poul
Dhub of Knockfierna, or the Bay o' Biscäy,
that they say^ hasn't e'er a bottom at all to id,
only all water intirely ; but the man that '11 get
to the rights of a woman will go a start deeper
than any of 'em, Vxn thinken. The boys* arn't
equal at all for 'em that way in taken your
measure ^s it wäre wit a. look, while you'd be
thinken o'nothen,and thinken they worthinken
o' nothen either, but 'tis they that would all
the while — But it's only fair, poor craturs," he
added with a compassionate and tolerating

* Men.

THE HALF SIR. 325

tone—" as Ihey're wake one way, they ought
to be strong another, or eise sure they'd be
raurdered intirely. They couldn't stand the
place at all for the boys, af they hadn't a va-
cancy at 'eni that way in 'cuteness, inwardly.
Murder! murder! butt its they that does come

round uz in one way or another • — Ah —

the girl in the gap, an' duck o' diamonds you
wer," he added, rapidly changing his manner,
as Nelly re-entered with the needle and thread —
** Talken of you to meself I was, while you wOr
away, Vm so fond o' you. Imaging your peck-
thur to meself, is it wäre, in my own mind."
And laying the letter on the window, while he
took ofFhis coat, for the more convenience, he
proceeded with Nelly's assistance to incarce-
rate the precious epistle.

In a few minutes a line of circumvallation
was drawn around the fortified receptacle, and
Remmy having satisfied himself that no pos-
sible point of egress or ingress was left unde-
fended, took a moving farewell of Nelly, and

326 THE HALF SIR.

hastened to acquit himself of the responsibility
which he had taken upon his Shoulders. We
shall see how he acquitted himself in the next
chapter.

CHAPTER V.

These women are stränge things.
'Tis something of tlie latest now to weep —
You should have wept when he was going from you,
And chain'd him with those tears at home.

Scornful Lady.

The danger and inconvenience of extremes,,
are, I believe, coeval with men's experience.
Had Emily left Remmy to the guidance of his
own natural share of prudence, the great pro-
bability is that her letter would have reached
itsdestinationinperfect safety; but the extreme
vigilance which she induced him to exercise,
greatly lessened the number of chances in its
favour. He certainly did not once cease think-
ing of it from the moment he left the house
until he arrived at his master's door. He se-

328 THE HALF SIR.

lected the shortest way — avoided all thecrowds
— manfully refused two invitations to ' step in
an take a mornen' from difFerent friends — and
kept his band continually hovering about the
pocket in which the iraportant charge was de-
posited. His surprise, therefore, was extreme,
when, just before he ventured to waken the
slumbering echoes of the area and coal vault,
he found on examination that the letter was
gone !

Enigmatical as this may appear to the rea-
der, it did not long continue so to Remmy,
who discovered very speedily that amid all his
great caution, while he had sewed up the pocket
so securely, he never once thought of putting
the letter into it. Rtspid as his progress was in
advance, the rate at which he retraced his steps
was a great deal more expeditious ; and he ar-
rived vvith a face glowing in anxiety, and moist
with Perspiration, at Mr. O'Brien's house. He
tapped at the window—rushed past Nelly, into
the servants'hall — thewindow wherehehad laid

THE HALF SIR. 329

it was still open — the letter had vanished. He
clasped his hands, and uttered a groan, such
as in the recesses of Warwick-lane, the sturdy
bullock utters, after it has received the coup de
grace, from the practised arm of the victualler.

" Nelly, we're done for ! — I lost the letter

You wouldn't have it, would you?"— You

wouldn'tseeit after nie thereupon the windy?"

"Fait an Vm sure dat I didn% Remmy."

Anothcr groan. "An after all the charges
she gai/ me about it. I wouldn't face her wit
sech a story for the world. Lord direct them
that tuk it, whoamsomever they wor, but they
did great härm, this mornen."

" 'Twould be better say nott'n at all about
it, may be, Remmy."

" Who knows but it's true for you. I
wouldn't teil herseif such a foolish thing as
that I lost it, for the world. I'll teil you how
it is, Nelly. Better lave it to 'emselves. Eh ?
— Them bits o' writen they do be senden one
to another is nothen, you see, but love-letters.

330 THE HALF SIR.

that vvay, and sure its no loss what was in
that scrap of a paper when they'U be married
shortly for life."

" True for you, Remmy."

''May be they wouldn't talk of it at all
whin they'd meet, an' if they did itself, sure
all that '11 be about it is a scolden, the same
as Vd get now af I toult it. Do you see now,
Nelly, honey?"

" Oh 'iss, an' I think it Stands wit raison
what you say, Remmy. There'd be no ho wit
her, sure, after given you the notes an* all/'
Said Nelly, who feit herself in some degree
implicated in the transaction by her adven-
turous and unhappily too enthusiastic esti-
mation of the value of her lover's head.
" I wouldn't face her after the notes, any
way."

"May be to take 'em of^ me she would,
eh V* Said Remmy, in additional alarm.

'* O she 's too much of a lady for that, but

* From.

THE HALF SIR. 331

indeed she would begridge that it was theni-
«elves wint in place o' de letter."

It was finally arranged between them that
Hamond should learn nothing of the letter
from Remmy, and, if possible, that its raiscar-
riage should be also kept secret from Miss
Bury.

Notwithstanding the tone of his letter,
which in reality he more than half believed,
Hamond was not prepared to be taken so im-
mediately at his word as Emily appeared by
her silence to have done. The certainty of
his fate, moreover, was confirmed to him by
the fiourishing account Remmy gave of the
jocund health and spirits in which he had left
the young lady— the brogue-footed Mercury
conceiving that he could not better supply
the loss of the letter than by communicating
all the pleasing intelligence his own Observa-
tion or invention could furnish.

Whatever Emily's feelings were on the re-
ceipt of Hamond's letter — how deep soever

332 THE HALF SIR.

the regret and remorse which it awakened
within her spirit, how fierce soever the struggle
which she had to sustain against her roused-
up pride, it may readily be supposed that the
apparently contemptuous silence with which
her last, gentle, tender, and (in her own judg-
ment) humiliating confession was treated, was
not calculated to alleviate the convulsion in
her mind. The first day passed over in
anxious vigilance, the next in anger and deep
ofFence, the third in wild alarm, the fourth m
awe-struck, deadly certainty of misery — for
proud and high-hearted as she was, the fate
which she so unwittingly earned for herseif
was misery to her. A week passed away, but
no Hamond, nor no indication of his existence
arrived at her guardian's house.

It is perhaps one of the most costly charges
attendant on the maintenance of pride, that its
votaries relinquish all claim to the comforts of
human sympathy. When it happens more-
over (as unfortunately was the case in the

THE HALF SIR. 333

instance of Emily Bury) that this dearly pur-
chased folly is^ lodged in a bosom otherwise
filled with gentle and softening afFections, the
cruel tyranny which it exercises over them is
sufficient to make life a protracted sickness
under any circumstances, and more especially
so when the sufferer is compelled to be bis
own only comforter — to nourish the lonely,
smothering agony within bis beart, and make
it bis sole care to confine the flame that is
secretly making asbes of his peace, so that it
shall be evident througb no chink or cleft in his
demeanour. Both the pride and the afFection
of our beroine received a violent Stimulus from
this dhnele with her lover. When she stooped
so low as to solicit his forgiveness in the terms
which she used, she bad not the remotest pos-
sible apprehension that her condescension
could be unappreciated or ineffectual. If the
question bad ever occurred to her mind by
accident, it is not easy to conjecture whether
the letter would ever have been forwarded.

334

THE HALF SIR.

But she wrote in an interval of lucid kindness
and natural generosity — love's bounty was at
the moment unchecked by the caution of her
cold ruling passion — she wished to make
Hamond an ample compensation for the un-
kindness of which he complained, and she
pictured to her own heart the gushing rapture,
the tears of love, of gratitude, and ecstacy
which should for ever wash away the remem-
brance of that single blot in their afFection —
that unhappy jar, which however she, in the
fond confiidence of her sanguine love, taught
her judgment to regard only as one of those
useful misunderstandings which make the
hearts of lovers more closely acquainted than
ever — a momentary shadow — a trimming of the
lamp of love which would eventually serve
only to strengthen and purify its flame — she
had no fear that Hamond really intended to
extinguish it — and when that fear did come
upon her heart, darkness deep and absolute
came and abode there with it.

THE HALF SIR. 335

She had not even the consolation of her
friend Martha's confidence; and the easy
impenetrable indifFerence which the latter
(though by no means duU of inference or
apprehension) observed in allEmily's conduct,
induced her to believe that in reality the cir-
cumstance did not clash in any degree with
her inclinations. Still, however, she was
totally at a loss to discover a motive for the
conduct of her young friend. It was true that
the latter, who would not permit a single
inquiry or even remark at all verging on the
subject, received the visitsof the young Baron

E f but she could not by this manceuvre

hoodwink Martha so corapletely as to prevent
her seeing that it was a mere feint — a mask,
under cover of which some concealed and
lurking passion was laying the foundation of
a far diff'erent fortune for its victim. So far
was the haughty young Irishwoman enabled
to conquer her own nature, that she was much
less frequently to be found alone than usual —

336 THE HALF SIR.

she forced herseif into the glare and bustleof So-
ciety, for fear the slightest ground of suspicion
might be afForded that she could for a moment
descend to the consciousness of a natural emo-
tion— her smiles were showered around in
greater profusion than before — carmine and
all the precious succedanea of the period were
anxiously made to tread in the steps of her
departing bloom, and render its flight as secret
and imperceptible as that of the peace of mind
on which it had been nurtured — her mirth was
louder (if loud it could be at any time) than
before — and many even of her most intimate
friends began to congratulate her on her en-
franchiseraent from what now appeared to have
been a weary thraldom. Amid all this proud
superiority of mind, however, Emily was a
more real object of compassion than the most
yielding, and helpless, and forsaken of her sex
— and she could not have brought her spirit to
bear its burthen so enduringly, but for the
resentment which the positive injustice with

THE HALF SIR. 337

wliich her letter had been treated by Hamond,

excited in her mind, and to vvhich she con-

stantly referred her heart in moments of de-

pression. When a little time roUed by, how-

ever, and reglet began to assume the niastery

over anger, she found the task of dissiimila-

tion more burthensome than before. When

she happened to be left for any time to the

Company of her own feelings, they would rush

upon her'with such an o'er-mastering influence,

as to quite subdue her resolution, and drag

her down to the level of piain humanity, in her

own despite. Her bosom would heave, her

frame would tremble, and the pent-up sorrow

swell and labour in her throat, until the ap-

proach of some wandering inmate of the man-

sion Startled the sleeping dragon of self-esteem

— when her character would again assume its

armour — she would repel by a violent efFort

the rising passion, press her hands flat and

close upon her neck, to stifle the rebellious

Impulse of her woman's natura — ajid like Lady

VOL. I. Q

338 THE HALF SIR.

Townley, in her gambling mood, " make a
great gulp and swallow it."

Nearly a fortnight had thus elapsed, when,
as Emily was laying aside her dress (after an
excursion to Howth with her friend Martha
and some acquaiiitances), in order to prepare
tbr the evening toilet, her attendant, Nelly,
entered the room as usual to give her assist-
ance. Her mistress, who was not so guarded
in the presence of the Soubrette, as in that
of her more sensitive and sharp-eyed friends,
and who was fatigued in heart and soul from
the toilsome pleasures of the forenoon, sat at
the table, her arm leaning on the toilet-cloth,
her band supporting her forehead, and her eyes
fixed in thoughtful melancholy upon the floor.

** Isn*t it greatly Mr. Hamond wouldn't
call before he went, Miss?" Nelly said
timidly, as she passed softly by the young
lady's chair.

Emily raised her head quickly and in streng
interest—** Went ! whither, Nelly ?"

THE HALF SIR. 339

*' Sure, never a know do I know, Miss, but
to be walken down there, by Eden quay, and
to meet Remmy O'Lone, an he goen wit a
walise or a kind of a portmantle onder his
arm, out to the Pigeon-house/'

** For what purpose, did he say?" asked
Emily, endeavouring to subdue the cruel
anxiety which began to stir within her bosom.

*' Fli teil you that, Miss. ' Good morrow,
Remmy,' says I. 'Good morrow kindly,
Nelly,' says he, * how is your Misses V says
he. ' Pretty well, Remmy,* says I, ' consider-
ing.' ' Fm not goen to see you any more now,
Nelly/ says he. 'Whyso?' says I. 'Wisha
then, I doV know,' says he, * but my master
is for foreign parts, direct,' says he, so — "

" Abroad!— going abroad? leaving Ireland!"
Emily exclaimed, starting up in undisguised
alarm.

" The very words I said meself, Miss.
' What !' says J, ' goen abroad,' says I, ' laven
Ireland,* sr ys I. * Iss, in trawt,' says he, ' the

340 THE HALF SIR.

passage is tuk an all, an this/ says he, shewen
me the portmantle the same time, ' is the last
thing that's not on board yet — hiraself is on
the high seas be this time, or will be
before — "

" Good heaven, I was not prepared for
this. — This is too dreadful !" Emily repeated,
half aloud, as if unconscious of an auditor.

" Me own very word to him, Miss. * It's
dreadful, Remmy,' says I, * an you too,' says
I, ' that ought to have some sense, any way,
goen after that bedlamite,' says I. ' Sure you
know, Nelly,* says he, again, ' I can't help
meself. He that's bound he must obey,
while he that's free can run away,' says he,
* I niust do the master's bidden, Nelly — his
hipsy dicksy is enough for me.' Ah, Miss
Em'ly, sure its often I heerd that men was
rovers, an its now we both feels it to cur
cosi."

" I desire," said her mistress, with a look
of ccld and proud reproof, *' that I may not

THE HALF SIR. 341

be iraplicated in any such ridiculous associa-
tion/' Then resuming the train of her ab-
stracted reflections, while Nelly submissively
disavowed any Intention to do so vvicked a
thing as to ' implikit' so good a * Misses/
Emily again murniured — " Gone ! — Could it
possibly have been any thing — any new insult
in my last letter, that — "

" I beg pard'n, Miss," said Nelly, " but vvhat
was that you were sayen about a letter ?"

" I gave it you, Nelly, that morning,
and— '^

*' In dread, you are, that it is anythen in
that Mr. Hamond tuk ofFence at. Make your
mind aisy on that head, Miss, for he cpuldn't
do it."

" How do you mean?"

Nelly, who thought concealment any longer
useless, and perhaps mischievous, replied to
the last question, by giving her youngmistress
a detailed account of the transaction, with
which the reader is already acquainted.

342

THE HALF SIR.

" And you knew of this, Nelly, and said
not a word of it to me !"

" O then, heav'n forgive us all, Miss. I
can't say but 1 did, indeed ; an sure if I knew
it would be any hurt — ^'

Emily had listened to her at first with
astonishment — then fierce anger — then utter
Horror ; until at length, as the girl circum-
stantially unfolded her iniquity, the ofFence
assumed a magnitude too gigantic for any
extremity of rage or of punishment. She
panted, whitened, trembled — and at length
sunk with a burst of tears in the attendant's
arms, as she exclaimed — " My poor girl, you
did not know what you were doing, but you
have ruined your mistress."

The shrill scream which Nelly set up at
seeing the condition of her mistress, though
checked almost instantly by the latter,
brought Miss 0*Brien into the room, who
was shocked and terrified by the condition
in which she found her friend. She hastened

THE HALF SIR.

to snatch her from the arms of her waiting-
maid, to support her upon her own bosom,
and endeavour, by caresses and the nsual
tender attentions, to restore her to some
degree of composure.

*' Nelly, leuve ihe loom," said Miss O'Brien.
*' What, in the name of wonder, can have
happened, EuVily ?" she added, as the weeping
and repentant girl obeyed her— ^* What does
this mean ?"

" It means, Martha, that I have been prac-
tising a fatal cheat upon you and on my own
heart. Hamond has left the country, ^nd
under the conviction that I have acted a false
and selfish part towards him."

" I was not prepared to hear that he was
gone," said Martha, a little puzzled, *' but, I
declare, Emily, I thought from your conduct
this time past, that — "

" I know it. It was my wish to make you
think so. I had written him a note, füll of
penitence, and requesting to see him, here, as

344

THE HALF SIR.

soon as possible. He did not come, and I
was anxious to save myself from the contempt
which a knowledge of the degrading slight
must necessarily occasion. But 1 now find
that by some awkwardness of our servants,
tliat letter was never received by him — and
here have I been the diipe of my own folly,
while he believes himself to have been treated
with coldness and ingratitude. O Martha,
I wish I had taken your advice, when last we
spoke on the subject. You knew him better
than I."

*' Be comforted, Emily. It is fortunate
that you have learned the circumstance in
time to efFect an explanation. If he has gone,
we cannot find it difficult, either through his
banker or some other channel, to procure a
clue to his probable residence abroad — and all
shall be well again in a few weeks."

Fate, however, seemed disposed to make
the lovers more deeply sensible of their
mutual folly, by faJsifying tliis consoling pre-

THE HALF SIR. 345

diction. An accident which had intervened,
confirmed Hamond in his resolution of
relinquishing his passion, if possible— at all
events, of separating himself from its object
for ever.

He had lingered, in the unacknowledged
hope of receiving some iiiducement to a
reconciliation, at his old residence, for about
a fortnight after he had sent the letter above-
mentioned. In the midst of his wavering
and irresolute humours, however, he received
an account from Remmy of the increased

frequency of Lord E 's visits. This (iir-

cumstance, combined with Emily's silence,
completely unsettled the hope that was be-
ginning to take ground (for love's hope
requires but light footing) on the barien
possibility of a misconception,

'' And now," said Hamond, after he had

dispatched his servant to secure him a place

in the packet, which was to sail on the follow-

ing raorning, *' Now, farewell high life, and

q2

346 TUE HALF SIR.

happiness, for ever ! Farewell, the sweet
anxieties, and mortifying kindnesses of
patronage — tlie chance courtesies — the elee-
mosynary smiles that are flung in pity to the
unfriended mendicant for fashion — " he
stamped violently and set his teeth as the
degrading epithet suggested itself to his mind.
** Welcome now the wide world, with all its
changes of clime, condition, and fortune !
Welcome my own vulgär Station. Its coarse-
ness is but the wholesome blustering of
nature's own elements, which may be much
more easily provided against, than the secret,
withering mildew, that is silently showered
upon the heart, amid all the sunshine and
Summer kindness of high-born hypocrisy.
Farewell, love ! and welcome toil, travel, and
extreraity ! Farewell, Emily ! let pride and
honour make good to your happiness all the
devoted tenderness which you have rejected,
and I will myself say that you are wealthy in
your loss.*'

THE HALF SIR. 347

He repeated his farewell with a deeper and
drearier feeling-, however, on the foUowing
morning, when he stood on the deck of the
packet, and cast his eyes with a parting fond-
ness over the distant hüls of Wicklow, that
separated him from his old Munster home.
The morning was a still and beautiful one —
and the face of the bay, agitated only by the
bulk of its own waters into that leaping undu-
lation which we cannotdescribe otherwise than
by referring the reader (in defiance of the im-
putation of a common-place affectation) to
Claude Lorraine's embarkation pictures, look'ed
clear and glassy-green. The pier was crowded
with passengers who were waiting to see their
effects safely stowed before they took their
own places in the vessel, with clamorous jingle-
men and ragged, half-starved porters ; mem-
bers of the exiled parliament made upfor the
winter campaign; and adventurers of every
description, who devoutly believed that goid
and fame grew like blackberries upon hedges

348 THE HALF SIR.

every where except in poor Ireland — and who,
if they did not actually suppose that the houses
in London were tiled with pancakes, and the
streets paved with wedges of gold — yet would
have staked theirexistence that something very
good must be had there or so many people
would not be constantly going and never re-
turning ; and lulled their hearts with the de-
licious promise of a delusion quite as vain, if
not so palpably absurd as that above alluded
to of poor Whittington. They saw not — and
Hamond saw not then, though his after experi-
ence brought the picture in all its reality be-
fore his eyes — they saw not the thousand
causes of that never — that eternal absence of
those who trod before them the path which they
were then treading,and had never retraced their
Steps. They heard only of the fortunes ofthose
wholived and prospered — they knew not — they
asked not of the fate of the many who failed
and perished, and whose tale remained untold.
They beheld not, in the blindness of their san-

THK HALF SIR. 349

guine hearts — tbe host of evils which counter-
balance the lonely and fortuitous good fortune
of the Single adventurer. They saw not the
poor but contented cottager of the Irish hüls
estranged from the careless simplicity of his
turfen hearth — and driving a miserable trade
amid the vileand stiflingrecesses of St. Giles's
and Saffron-hill; with some bits of old cord —
a knife-brick — a few heads of greens — a trace
of onions — a bushel of coals — a mangling ma-
chine— and a few pounds of potatoes for his
whole stock, — or hurrying to its close the
wasting flame of a miserable life amid the
abominations ofa London night-house. They
saw not the wretchedbasket-womanof Covent-
garden market, whom the demon of discontent
had found living in the happy ignorance of
her own wants, the grace and blooming Orna-
ment of some mountain hamlet in her native
land— they saw not the baffled politician bury-
ing himself in the gloom of his lonely apart-
ment, after having squandered a life inearning

350 THE HALF SIR.

for himself the curses of his own people and
the contempt of those among vvhom he so-
jonrned — they saw him not as he drew the
last, long sigh — and looked the long, last
look tovvard the window that opened on the
west — ere he put to its fatal use the weapon
that was for ever to shut out the sight and
sound of the ruin he had made, from the organs
of his mortal sense. They saw not the young,
acutely sensitive, and fine-principled enthu-
siast, whom the folly of friends, or the con-
sciousness of merit forced abroad upon the
World — shrinking in disgustand agony from the
cruel reality which displaced the fa'ery splen-
dours of his own fond imagination — or curbing
his high spirit down to the mean and crawling
uses of a hireling and atime-server — bartering
his youthful principle for bread — or, perhaps,
sternly preserving it, and turning aside from
the wonder — the scorn — and indifFerence of the
World, to die in want and solitude, and hide
his brilliant qualities of heart and mind in the

THE HALF SIR. 351

gloom of a pauper's grave, unthought of, and
unpitied.

While Hamond sat indulging the barren and
listless humour which the utter min of his own
hopes had cast upon him, his eye was attracted
bythe sightof a smallvessel, which was rapidly
gliding by them in ihe direction of the hill of
Howth. The distance was not so great as to
prevent his fully distinguishing the persons
and features of its crew ; and when he had done
so, his heart bounded within his bosom, as if
it would have deserted its mansion. Miss
O^Brien, and Emily Bury were seated near the
stern,and anelegant-lookingyoungman, whom
he had no difficulty in recognizing as the ob-

noxious E , was seated near the latter.

He was apparently describing to her the efFect
of some particular scenery in the country, for
his hand was frequently pointed towards the
Wicklow hüls, and Emily often smiled and
bowed her head as in assent. Hamond feit
his frame tremble, and his heart sink, and

352 THE HALF SIR.

sicken, as he leaned against the mast of the
vessel.

The dreariness which his own want of
object or interest occasioned with his soul,
was tenfold increased by the apparent anx-
iety and bustle of those around him. He
feit, as he turned aside from the painful testi-
mony, which his own eyes afForded him, of
his mistress's falsehood — and as he gazed upon
the crowd of busy faces that were flitting
about his own, as if he were among beings of
another world, in whose proceedings he could
take no possible interest — or as if he had
returned from the grave, to look with the füll
knowledge of the utter vanity of all earthly
pursuits, upon the dry and common toil of
his unseeing species. Presently, a fellow
Struck up some populär air, on a clarionet,
upon the deck of the packet that lay near.
The well known sounds produced an instant
bustle among the passengers. The women
threw by their cloaks, and the country fellows

THE HALF SIR. 353

cautiously keeping their bundles in their
hands, and occasionally wheeling their sticks,
in an impulse of extatic delight, with a
*' hoopwhishk !" above their heads, kept up
a pattering heel-and-toe measure, upon the
boards. Many of those on board were about
to revisit the scenes of their early youth —
some few, perhaps, returning crowned with
wealth and success after a long life of toil and
trial, were enjoying, in anticipation, the de-
light of pouring their riches into the lap of an
impoverished parent, and bringing peace and
joy into the bosom of a sorrowing householci.
— Another, perhaps, was about to feel once
more upon his cheek the tears of a devoted
wife, and the innocent kisses of the children
from whom he had been torn by the tyranny
of circumstances — Another might be return-
ing to the house and the affections of a for-
saken and forgiving father. Another, yet, had
a first love to meet, and even he, the most de-
solate among them, who had no such immediate

354 THE HALF SIR.

friends to welcome him to the home he had
left — feit his spirit mount, and his heart make
healthful music within him, while he thought
of laying him down

'•To liusband out life's taper at the close,"

among the wild hüls and *' pleasant places,"
where he had spent the happiest years (it is an
old thing to say — but its staleness may be par-
doned for its truth) — that heaven accords to
man, in a world where no positive happiness
can exist — but where life runs on between re-
gret for the past — want for the present — and
hope for the future. Hamond, on the contrary,
was leaving a land, which was, and was not, his
home — and where he had filled a nameless place
in Society, without stamp or Station — possess-
ing Claims to various conditions, and properly
belonging to none.

A hght wind shortly sprung up, and the
vessel left the land. Hamond again caught a
distant glimpse of Emily's little pleasure-boat,

THE HALF SIR. 355

as it glided swiftly on its course. The morn-
ing sun, falling on the slate roofs along the
shore, and on the tarred and patched main-
sails of the smacks which were used for the
destruction of the famous Dublin-bay herrings
(a staple article of fast-fare, as populär in the
Irish metropolis as the renowned John Dory
at Billingsgate), gave an appearance of gaudy
animation to the scene. Onward still the
vessel went, and the receding music came over
the waters like a farewell. The pleasure-boat
became invisible in the haze of the morning
sunshine, and Hamond plunged into the
gloom of his cabin an estranged and altered
man.

ENÜ OF VOL. I.

Printed by J. F. Dove, St. John's Square.